Columbia's Finest
by smeehan98
Summary: (AU setting) This is the story of Booker Dewitt, once called 'Shepherd of Wounded Knee', now a Columbian officer, as he is drawn into the darkest secrets of the Floating City, and begins to learn the truths behind the prophecy it was founded upon. He and his fellows loyalties, both to their faith and friendships, will be tested to their limits. Liz/Book MUCH later in story.
1. Intro - Special Assignment

**Columbia's Finest**

**AN: FYI this story is set in an AU World, in which Booker and Elizabeth are NOT related in any way. I don't own Bioshock Infinite or any part of the franchise (just in case someone's an idiot)**

**UPDATE: Slight revision of chapter to make it a little less cliche etc. Not worth re-reading but hopefully won't repel as many viewers as before. Also added an intel report (WARNING: Report does contain some spoilers for next few chapters)**

**Note: Chapters get progressively longer after this and chapter 2, averageing between 3-6 thousand words each.**

**So lets begin.**

**CH1-Special Assignments**

_**December 23rd 1890 - 0830**_

Booker Dewitt watched from his post out over the camp ground near the native reds village. The camp was little more than a large group of tents arrayed around the charred remains of a small fire. It had no walls or indeed any obvious defenses asides from several other posts set up around the perimeter, but with the gap in technologies between the natives and the occupiers he supposed there was little need. A good rifleman with a clear line of sight would be more than enough to hold them back, not that that was likely to become necessary any time soon. Booker had been a soldier for only 2 months, and he was already sick of the job. His days were filled with nothing more than chores, target practise and waiting. Always waiting, but never sure for what. The constant drizzle from the overcast sky did little to amend his thoughts.

The post was a small timber watchtower with a wide view over the surrounding area, offering a clear view of most nearby routes into the camp as well as the tree line several hundred meters away. While the tactical placement and the sturdy construction of the post were commendable features, Booker couldn't for the life of him work out why no one had bothered to build a roof over the structure. In the corner of the platform on a small table rested his rifle alongside several other necessities; his helmet, 20 rounds, a bayonet, ration bar and also a whistle. Someone had clearly been before because also resting in the corner was a cheap waterlogged guitar. Upon initial inspection Booker had been surprised to find it not only playable but reasonable good.

Disillusioned by the miserable conditions, Booker leaned back on his stool, and started to strum away with the guitar. No well-known pieces; he didn't know any, but it was nice to have a distraction. Life as a soldier had seemed so glamorous to a New York street rat. Duty, respect, training and three square meals a day were things Booker had long since forgotten growing up, and then just a few months ago he lost the battle with temptation and went to the recruiting office. He was only 14 then, but years on the streets toughened him enough to fool the recruiters into thinking him 16, and just at the legal age to serve. Booker doubted they really cared, especially after the pitiful attempt at "training" him for combat, which lasted a whole 3 days. It was enough to teach the basics of handling the bolt action Springfield he'd been supplied.

As it happened, Booker had taken to the rifle very quickly, and a whole lot of practice, maintenance and tuning had left him with a reputation as one of the better shots in the camp. Which explained why he was here, on guard duty, again. Booker wasn't even sure why they were bothering to guard the place. The whole two months he had been there not a single act of violence had been necessary anywhere in a 5 mile radius. The vets had told him that nothing had happened for the last 8. Considering the hassle they were giving the government, Ghost Dancers seemed pretty peaceful. His knack for the gun had also resulted in him being designated as one of the camp "Snipers" so he had been given a scope. That there were only 5 to be distributed around his entire unit spoke volumes about Booker's skill, especially seeing as he was so far untested in a live combat scenario.

Despite his frustrations with his current position, Booker still admitted it was infinitely better than being back on the streets. At least here, at Wounded Knee, he didn't have to steal to eat, fight to keep what little he owned, and risk waking up every night at the bottom of the river. Here there was just the generally irritable banter between soldiers, the occasional brawl in the mess, and a few smart asses who thought they were better than everyone else. Booker could deal with that sort of thing. Had been for a long time. But at least life in New York had always been interesting. At Wounded Knee, it was the same mindless routine every day. Up at 6am, breakfast in the mess at 6:30, Roll call at 7:00, Chore/Assignment for the day, free time/meal after 9pm, curfew by 10. This happened day in day out, for weeks on end, and when assignments were more often than not as tedious as guard duty, it quickly grated on a man. The honest truth was that, like most of the men here, he was bored. He hadn;t even realised till he woke up yesterday morning

_**December 23rd 1890 – 0851**_

"PRIVATE DEWITT!" bellowed the Staff Sergeant.

"Sir" Booker did his best to sound clear and crisp when addressing his superior, but the result came out as more of an exasperated sigh than anything else. _Damn it, that's gonna get me trouble._

"DEWITT I'VE HEARD BETTER "SIR'S" BOOT CAMP! YOU'RE DAMNED LUCKY LIEUTENANT SLATE WANTS A WORD WITH YOU RIGHT NOW OR I'D HAVE YOU RUNNING 20 LAPS ROUND THE PERIMETER. REPORT TO THE COMMAND TENT" he paused for a second, doing his best to hide his amused expression "NOW PRIVATE!" At that Booker hastily slung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed his equipment and got down from the watchtower as fast as his legs would take him.

_Damn that's the last time I doze of on guard duty. _he thought, as he weaved his way through the poles and ropes that held each tent in the air. _Wonder what Slate wants_.

Booker had met Slate on two occasions thus far. The first had been when he had been assigned to the 7th Cavalry, and to Slates command. His impressions of the man was both one of respect and fear. The man certainly knew how to lead and could probably pick a fight with the best of them, but he seemed a little...off. The other had been the day he'd watched the Lieutenant flog a man who'd been drunk on guard duty. Corporal O'Neil was still in the infirmary tent, and Booker still had the image of Slates gleeful smirk as he cracked the whip against the unfortunate drunks bare back. Booker prayed he wasn't about to face similar punishment.

The Command Tent was similar to most of the other tents in the camp that weren't designed for sleeping in. From the exterior it was a roughly square-shaped shambles of dirty cloth and fabric. There was a metal sheet attached to one side to form a makeshift door, which was flanked on both sides by a couple of thoroughly bored troopers armed with relatively modern Carbines. As Booker walked towards them, one glanced at his fellow before opening the scrap door and ducking down into the tent. Booker looked at the other who nodded back; a go ahead to follow the man.

The inside of the Command Tent was little better than the exterior. Rotted wooden planks had been dragged in to form a rough floor, but it was all too noticeable that the recent weather had rotted right through. Sopping mud squelched up through the cracks, and in places the floor was nearly a centimeter underwater. Several older looking soldiers, veterans from previous engagements and the higher ranking officers in the 7th Cavalry were clustered around a rickety table, the wood faring little better here than the floorboards. Booker spied several maps, presumably of the nearby area alongside what appeared to be letters or reports of some description. The guard Booker had been following was flashing a crisp salute towards a middle aged man Booker recognized as the lieutenant.

"Ahh Private Dewitt, glad to see you here in one piece." said Slate, conveniently forgetting that absolutely nothing had injured anyone in Camp recently but him.

Slate looked Booker up and down. The younger man was reminded of the first time he had met the officer.

"_So your the new recruit I'm taking into my command. Hmm, yes you should do nicely. Private Dewitt, while in my command you will find out quickly that I don't care about the hows and whys in the job. I don't care if you think it's cruel what you're doing to our enemies or even if you couldn't care less about your fellows. What I do care about, is that you do whatever it is I say, and the job gets done. Remember that, and you'll be up in the ranks in no time...forget it, and I'll have you in front of the firing squad by dawn."_

"Dewitt,"Slates hand were joined behind his back as he spoke and his chin was up, as if trying to appear superior or aloof. "I'm sending you on a special assignment. You've yet to face any real combat situations but if our information is right... we'll need every veteran here in the coming days. As our highest predicted rookie that leaves you for the job."

"Sir?" Booker quietly questioned, trying to uncover what the 'assignment' actually was.

"What you're about to here private will not leave this room." Booker nodded. "While travelling through the forest area a few dozen mile from here, Major Comstock was believed to have been captured by native warriors. Needless to say, we cannot allow this to go unpunished. We're sending you to recover the Major and kill any natives you find along with him. Teach the red skinned bastards a lesson!"

Slate paused as he took the map from the tabletop. The assembled officers looked at Booker with weary and almost hopeless eyes. Booker got the feeling he wasn't expected to return with the major, or even at all. Slate pointed a shaded section on the map.

"This is where we expect them to have taken the Major. You are to focus your search on this area. Be careful, our scout barely avoided being spotted but there is a large presence of seemingly hostile natives throughout the area." Slate stepped away from the map when he finished, pacing slightly in front of the Private.

"You can take no more than 3 other recruits with you. The less of you there are, the less chance they'll execute the major if you're spotted" Another officer, slightly younger than the Lieutenant.

"And one more thing Private" Slate again "Comstock was on his way to visit his family. We don't know if he had been with them when he was abducted, but if they were, do your best to save them as well. They're secondary, but it would be a hell of a better situation if you got them out. Look for one women, his wife, and a little girl, should be about 10 or 11 years old. Pretty sure the little one's called Elizabeth."

The Mess Tent was still packed with off-duty soldiers, despite breakfast being over an hour ago. A side effect of being in a military camp in a relatively peaceful area was that most non-essential personnel either received way too much free time, or got stuck with the tedious jobs that involved a whole lot of standing in one place. When the former happened, a soldier typically had three choices. Train themselves or their equipment, as Booker often did, hit the rec-tent, which contained various cheap forms of entertainment (including cards, the woe of any soldiers pay) or finally the Mess-tent, which when it wasn't serving meals acted as a meeting point for friends and comrades to sit back and chat. Needless to say, a lot of this happened in Wounded Knee.

Booker almost snarled in frustration when a clearly tipsy soldier bumped past him, muttering about some card-shark or something. Technically, alcoholic drinks were banned, but with so little to do the officers had become lax, and with the exception of a couple like Slate, usually let being drunk slide so long as you weren't on duty. Smuggling alcohol and other commodities could be lucrative business in this environment. However, for Booker right then, it made finding suitable men that much more difficult.

Eventually he found a face he recognized. "Oi Monroe!" he shouted other the raucous shouts and laughter. She turned to face him, a raising an eyebrow in question. Booker gently shoved his way towards her. When he got within a few feet he lent forward to speak quietly in her ear. It wouldn't do to tell the whole camp what was happening."Got a job I need some help with. Do me a favour and find a couple of guys, and get yourselves saddled up for the long-haul."

When he broke away, he saw her face had scrunched up slightly in confusion. Not the best look, but understandable given the circumstances. "Wait, long haul? What are we-" she was cut off by a look from Booker "Oh I see...classified..." the way she said it there might as well have been a bad smell in the air.

"I'll tell you all about it when we get out of camp. Now go. I've gotta fetch some equipment and stuff, but i'll meet you guys at the main exit at 10:00am okay?" She nodded in response. "Good, lets get to it then." With that he broke away, feigning an attack on the small crowd which had formed around them. _That'll stick for a while won't it. Booker Dewitt, only guy Miss Monroe will even let near her in the whole camp. Well 'cept Mannley, but they've known one another for years. Wonder who the other guy she'll pick'l be?_

__Booker left to a chorus of men cheering and whooping his name in mock applause. He found it difficult to contain the smirk which was forcing it's way onto his face.

_Maybe this is the job for me after all..._

__**INTEL REPORT**

**7th Cavalry: The 7th was responsible for the so called 'Massacre of Wounded Knee'. Following the kidnapping of the Prophet and his family, the 7th lead an all out assault on a militant Lakota Ghost Dancer encampment, where it was believed the family was being held, and killed most of the inhabitants. The 7th was supported by 22 artillery operators manning four Hotchkiss Machine Guns, bringing the total number of men from 438 to 460 troopers, not including native scouts who also helped the men. It was commanded at the time by the then-lieutenant Cornelius Slate, who was largely credited for the military victory, if not the rescue itself. **

**Following the Massacre and thus the end of the American Indian Wars, many members of the 7th were transferred under Major Comstocks command, to work as officers in the newly formed C.S.F. Due to their involvement in the rescue, these men and women were typically elevated above and beyond most servicemen at the Prophets request, many finding themselves rising up several ranks before they even deployed to the new job. As US soldiers go, these men and women have the most recent experience of a full battle, and are certainly the most up-to-date regiment in service.**

**Cornelius Slate: Slate is well known nowadays as one of our greatest war-hero's, rivaling even the legendary status of the Songbird and the Shepherds. Born and bred a career soldier, he enlisted as soon as he was able, becoming the youngest soldier to join the 7th Cavalry prior to Booker Dewitt's enlistment. Quickly proving his worth when a lucky shot from a dying injun killed his CO, Slate was fast-tracked through the ranks when it became apparent to his superiors just how useful he was both in leadership roles and in combat. Perhaps his most famous battle to date would be Wounded Knee, where he all but led the 7th to military victory over the Lakota tribe. While victory was never in question from numbers and tech alone, Slate is remembered here for the brilliant opportunist tactics he used, resulting in hundreds of dead injuns at the cost of only a dozen or so US troopers.**

**Following that event, Slate was recruited onto the C.S.F, as Security Commander. He continues to serve that role with distinction to this day.**

**Ghost Dancers: Prior to Wounded Knee, a false prophet, the Injun known as Wovoka, claimed that the Messiah would be returned to Earth, alongside the spirits of all Injun's ancestors, and that the White man would disappear and the Bison, now nearly extinct, would return as well. Allegedly, this 'miracle' would be brought about by the performance of a special dance, named the Ghost Dance. When the US found out that many tribes actually believed the nonsense, they decided to act first to prevent anti-US attacks by native believers.**

**Ghost Dancers, named for obvious reasons, are stereotypicaly remarkably fanatical, and firmly anti-white in their beliefs. However, this hate does not, as many would believe, go so far as to cause them to be outwardly hostile to any whites they see. Veterans of Wounded Knee noted how many of the more docile Injuns turned out to be some of the fiercest fighters. **

**The Dancers were more or less stamped out when they witnessed the massive casualties they took at the massacre, though enclaves continued for several years after. **

**A.N: Yep I know Elizabeth probably isnt even born by Wounded Knee in the game, but evenwith Booker at less than minimum age that would put the age gap at 14/15 minimum, which is a bit much to work with. Hey, come on guys, I said this was AU.**


	2. Intro - The Hunt

**CH2- The Hunt**

**December 27th 1890 – 0940**

"Dewitt..."

Booker sighed.

"Not now Manley, I don't wanna here it"

He, Manley, Monroe and Gardener had been out in the wilderness on horseback for the last 4 days now, and as of yet they hadn't found any signs as to the whereabouts of Comstock, his captors or his family. It was a sad day indeed when Booker caught himself missing guard duty.

Manley decided to press on "Seriously Booker, you should take a look at this"

"Dammit fine, but I swear to God, if this is just another broken bush or a bloody snake I'll kick you in the ass sooo hard you'll"

"It's not like that. Look. Footprints."

Booker blinked. After finally convincing Mary to turn around (_Easier said than done _hethought morosely) he discovered that Manley was indeed telling the truth. The ground had been made wet by a nearby trickle of water, presumably beginning at some form of spring, and the resulting mud had been further churned up by several sets of feet walking over it. The point was that clearly visible were clear tracks leading to the north . Of further note was that these prints were not bootprints as one might expect from the average traveller in those parts, but clearly uncovered and unprotected feet. Whoever had made those tracks hadn't wanted to be followed, and the only reason they were visible at all was the mud.

"Hey nice work Lean. Those have gotta be our natives" Monroe called out.

Booker wasn't sure how appropriate it was to have a women serve in the military, but so far Monroe had done nothing but impress, and she was probably the only other soldier in the group he actually trusted to have his back. As a women, being successful in a military force entirely made up of men was a difficult thing to achieve, and frankly Booker believed Vivian had probably had to pretend to be a man to get past the recruiters.

"Yeah probably. Look no tread marks, just naked feet. But what about these. Thy got a kid with 'em, or something"

This was said by Gardener, the last and probably most unremarkable soldier Booker had met. Truly his only distinguishing feature was the red shirt he was partial to wearing whenever off duty in the camp.

After hearing Leans last statement Booker himself also spotted that one of the tracks was considerably smaller than the others, and every now and then the ground was dug into small trenches, as if someone had been digging their heels in as they were pulled along. It seemed they'd found their secondary objective at least..

"Ok people lets move. Looks like we've found the the daughter at least, and hopefully the Major and his wife too."

**December 27th 1890 – 1216**

They had been following the trail for about 2 and a half hours now, and Booker was beginning to wonder if they were on the right tracks after all. How far could a little girl walk anyway, and with the amount of damage to the ground and vegetation on the trail Booker doubted they were just walking.

The group had by now travelled several miles beyond the borders of the area Slate had "predicted", and were in a landscape full of trees and clearings. Tracking the natives had proven difficult but certainly manageable. What began with floundering around looking for another clue as to direction had turned to following a subtle yet continuous trail of destruction through the foliage, likely caused by the captives as they were dragged along. Whatever the cause, they made the normally impossible job oh so much simpler.

"Hey guys, I just realised. We missed Christmas!"

"Shut the hell up Manley. You want them to hear us" Gardener sniped Leans sheepish attempt at conversation down in seconds, every time.

In truth Booker could care less about missing the holidays. Back in New York, the New Year period was just another bout of drunken brawls, gang warfare, and risk of starvation, just now with a white sheet so the blood stood out more. Bookers last gift on the festive season had been two dollars from a well heeled looking gentleman as he wandered past while Booker was waking.

That had been three years ago.

Despite this he understood where Manley was coming from. He and his admittedly few friends had often met up around that time and finally let loose for a few days. Manley, who had grown up in a middle class family in Boston, had likely been spoiled by them for years over the holiday. It would have been a harsh change to accept.

As they continued along the trail, Booker (and indeed the other members of the team) began to wonder what they would do when, or if for that matter, they actually found the hostages. Clearly 4 soldiers armed with bolt action rifles had no chance if they decided to storm the enemy, especially if the natives stopped in a camp or met with another group. No in this case a slugging match would just play into the injuns hands.

Voices, from the left.

"Whoa, Mary! Guys slow down!"

"Booker, what do you see." Vivian looked at him quizzically.

"Not see Monroe. Shush." Booker raised a finger to his lips in the universal symbol and held his head high, trying to determine the location of the phantom voices.

"_:Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."_

"Sounds like, a preacher, or something"

"Out here in the middle of nowhere. Anyone else find that just a little suspicious" Gardener spoke up.

"Better go see what they're doing here. Manley, stay here so we don't lose the trail. Monroe, Gardener, we're going to church."

And with that, the three soldiers dismounted and crested the hill that had blocked their view of the scene unfolding below.

Below them in a large clearing was a group of around 30 people, roughly 20 of whom were men, and also several women and children. They were all standing in a circle around a middle aged man in black priests robes standing in the stream Bookers team had recently been following. The trio watched as the man continued his sermon, animatedly waving his hands as if to physically punctuate every phrase and sentence.

"Today brothers and sisters, we do the lords work and bring good news and enlightenment to those left in the dark. Jesus once spoke to his disciples, "therefore go forth, and make disciples of all nations". Today we follow the mantra of the sun, and begin our work as righteous missionaries to the uncivilised..."

Seeing the preacher wasn't about to stop any time soon, Booker interrupted.

"Excuse me. Hey excuse me. Sir?"

"Is it someone new? Have more come to spread the word of the lord? Praise be, brothers and sisters, praise be to the Father!"

The congregation murmured in agreement.

"Praise be"

"Yes, praise be"

Once again Booker broke through the crowds chanting.

"No. No sorry. We're just looking for a group of injuns in the area"

"My son the only injuns for 10 leagues are located just north of here. As a matter of fact they are also our own destination. Pray tell, what interest could a group of young patriots such as yourselves have in such a people"

Booker narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He wasn't sure he should go announcing their mission to the first man who took an interest, and the last thing they needed was for the Injuns to possibly receive a warning from the...overly charismatic... preacher.

That said, it was unlikely the man would give the natives exact location up to a bunch of armed and rough looking soldiers without a damned good reason.

"I can't give the exact details, but we have a lot of evidence that some of them have abducted a family from the area, and one of them may be crucial for operations in this area. We're here to get him out, wife and child too if possible"

The preachers face had turned from one of faith induced bliss to shocked and horrified by Bookers words. And then following this anger. Looking round, Booker noticed most of the congregation had drawn similar expressions, and several of the men had unslung hunting rifles and began checking the workings.

"Ab..Abducted you say. An innocent family, by these..._natives!"_ The last word was spat out as if it made the preachers mouth dry.

While outwardly Booker and the other soldiers maintained a neutral poker-face, inwardly they grinned. It seemed they had found a solution to the manpower problem.

"Yes, abducted. We don't even know if they're still alive at the moment. The man, almost certainly, but his wife and daughter would only be kept for leverage. No sense in keepin em alive otherwise..." Booker let the crowd realise what he was implying.

The rage on the priests face was plain for anyone to see. Looking around, he noticed many of his flocks similar expressions.

He faced the circle of worshippers and spoke out once more.

"Brothers and sisters, it appears that our plans must be changed. The holy bible teaches us that when the lord looked upon the world and found it full of wickedness, found it beyond redemption, he did not abandon the innocent to the whims of the guilty. The Lord did not abstain from the affairs of man, and let them trample themselves into the dust. No, the Lord judged all men, and when they were found wanting, he purged wickedness from the world in a great flood, sparing only those who were truly innocent."

He paused to take a breath.

"My flock, while you have followed me I have done my best to guide you towards the teaching of our Lord and Jesus. However, when the heathens sacked the holy city, did the true Christian abandon it, no! They sent forth mighty army's on holy crusade, and fought to crush the heretics so God could judge them in purgatory! "_Thou shalt not kill", _a simple rule and yet one we must today break. I urge you now to join with these men and women to free the innocent from the clutches of these heretics"

Booker was impressed. The speech wasn't very good, but had clearly further riled more than a few men within the group. The priest turned to Booker again.

"We are willing to assist you in any way we can. By the way, my name is Witting. David Witting."

"Dewitt, Booker. Thank you for the assistance. First move should be to get the women and children home, then you can show us the best overlook of the injuns camp. And hurry, we don't wanna be spotted."

Nodding Preacher Witting turned to his flock one last time.

"Well what're you waiting for boys. Times'a wasting!"

**A.N: To any who believe Witting wouldn't allow killing or violence in his flock, just watch the TV trailer. They're bloody fanatics who cant even execute the right people!**


	3. Intro - Best Laid Plans

**CH3-Best Laid Plans **

**December 27 1890 – 1411**

The native Lakota Indians had laid camp in the middle of a large valley, near Wounded Knee creek. Two ways in or out, on the east and west sides of the camp. Booker counted roughly 30 tents, and at a guess each could probably hold 3 people comfortably. To the north of the camp the land turned gently upward into a sloping hill, and the camp was backed up against rocky cliffs to the south, effectively preventing attack from that direction. The trees on the northern hill though, provided perfect cover for a small group to observe the camp undetected, and may even screen an attack from that direction.

It was in one of these trees that Booker found himself sighting down the scope of his Springfield, watching as the natives went about their day.

At his last count, Booker had spotted around 60 men and women, and about 20 armed with rifles on their person, though Dewitt suspected many had simply left them in their tents. Tensions in the camp seemed high, and he had seen more than a few of the men arguing, though being about 500m away meant he had no idea what over. He suspected however, that it may have something to do with the barred doorway into the cliffs on the opposite side. If the major and his family were being held anywhere, Booker's gut told him it was behind that door.

Booker had learned from experience to always trust his gut.

Seeing that nothing he hadn't already seen was about to happen, he holstered his rifle and dropped back down to the forest floor, the only sign he had ever been there the disturbed leaves where he had landed.

**December 27 1890 – 2146**

The campfire (a small one soas to reduce the odds of them being spotted) burned away in the centre of the assemble. Everyone who had volunteered for the mission were arrayed around, trying to rest keep a lookout, or just watch the heated argument rage on around them. Booker was naturally in the centre of it, with Monroe backing him up. Gardener and Manley were a few meters away keeping watch.

"That's enough sir. There's no way I'm risking my men and your owns lives storming a camp that may or may not be holding our hostages." Booker let out an exasperated sigh as the other man, one of Wittings flock, paced back and forth, rage on his face and finger brushing the trigger of his rifle.

"And why not man. There's an innocent family down there and you're content to leave them to rot in the face of...whatever it is those savages are doing to them. You already know they have them! Why are we listening to you anyway. You're just a damn kid!"

Booker pinched his nose in frustration. This idiot was starting to get on his nerves.

"No I didn't say we know they're being held there. I said we _suspect_ they are. We storm that camp guns blazing, we'll lose people. We might not even win. You want that on your hands just to find a family that _might not even be there_ a day earlier at most?"

"I just" The man began before Monroe stepped in.

"Duly noted, now stand down or go home. We don't need anyone jumping the gun for this."

"We're listening to a woman now, who put this bitch in..."

Monroe's glare cut through his rant sharper than a kitchen knife. The half drawn revolver at her waist helped too. The troublemaking worshipper threw his hands in the air and stalked of indignantly, sending his own glares over his shoulders every few seconds. Most of the others decided it would be a good time to try and catch some shut-eye at this point.

Booker turned to Witting "Is he gonna be a problem?"

"Mathias is an angry soul, but I doubt he would risk the whole endeavour to sate his own desires for darkness. I would hope I have taught him more control than that..."

"What is he? An ex-con or something?"

"Let's just say for a long time he lived far apart from our Lords wishes."

"Well haven't we all..." Booker replied with a sarcastic smile.

" You must ask him himself if you wish to know more. I am curious though child. You show the marks of a man who has seen much evil in his time."

"Yeah I guess I have. Grew up in New York. Family had no money I guess so I got left in the streets. Had a few friends as I grew up, but...most of 'em are dead or in too deep to get out of it now. So yeah sorry father, but I ain't no saint fighting for God or Freedom. I'm here because it's better than back there"

Booker wasn't sure what he expected the priest to say. Probably some rambling nonsense about how he was a heathen sinner and should be burned in hell for his sacrilege. He certainly didn't expect the understanding smile the man had taken.

"Truly, I expected as much. You may or may not be surprised by this, but I once had a similar upbringing as you do. Washington is a playground to those with the finance or political clout, but to the downtrodden it can be an early and undeserved hell. Indeed the biggest difference between the two of us is how we have escaped such places."

"So how did you do it?" Booker queried, his eyes betraying the curiosity he was failing to hide.

"Where you found an escape in the form of the military, I found my God."

"I thought God was up in the sky..."

"No you misunderstand me child. What I mean is to say that I found redemption in devoting myself to the Lord. In baptism, my sins were washed clean and I was reborn a new man, free from the shackles of my previous existence"

Booker blinked in surprise. Surely it couldn't be as easy as that. The priests words had begun to open Bookers mind to a whole nest of new ideas.

"Seriously, a dunk in the water and everything's fine."

The priest suppressed a chuckle just barely. "hmph, not quite, but it gave me a chance to start over, work to do good by myself and those around me. Who truly needs more than that."

"Interesting..."

"Should you wish, come find me when this mess is all over, and I will do my best to clean your soul as well."

"I'll keep that in mind... thank you..."

And with that, Witting left the fire to turn in for the night, leaving Booker alone with his thoughts.

**December 28th 1890 – 1015hrs**

Booker was set up once again in the tree that had provided such a good view of the amp the previous day. Through the scope he saw that most of the Lakota camp was awake, and that they seemed no more or less frantic than the day before. Looking to the east of the camp, he saw Wittings flock waiting patiently for the signal to proceed with the plan.

It was a simple plan. Brainstorming ideas throughout the morning had left the group with two decisions. They could storm the camp by force, which would hopefully end in a victory and the recovery of the Comstock's, but that plan of action had a high chance of failure and could end in everyone's deaths. Booker wasn't willing to risk that without knowing for sure that the Comstock's were indeed being held at the camp, and the more info the better.

Which was where this preliminary plan and second option came in. Wittings group would infiltrate the camp, under the guise of being missionaries for the church. Seeing as this was their original intention, it wouldn't be difficult to get in. The real risk began when inside. Gardener would be infiltrating with the missionaries under the same disguise, but would sneak away from the main body as soon as he was able. From there, he would have to locate the family before rejoining the group. They would hopefully all leave unharmed within a few hours, with as much information on the natives as possible soas to form the real plan later on.

So at 9 o'clock Booker had sent Monroe and Manley back with orders to quote "_inform the lieutenant what was going on and get your ass's back by nightfall" _At 10 o'clock the Christians had also left for the camp.

Booker angled his Springfield so the scope caught the glare of the sun. He did this once more, showing the agreed signal for _proceed with plan_. Looking back through the scope, he saw Witting begin to lead his followers to the camp itself.

When they reached the gates they were stopped by an armed native, looking pretty mean and rifle at the ready by his waist. Witting said a few words though and the native lowered his rifle, put his hands together in the symbol of prayer before gesturing inside the camp.

_A believer then._ Booker thought, still following the groups progress.

When they made it to the centre of the camp, a loud horn was called, and the natives all began to wander towards the group. Gardener decided now was as good a time as any, and slipped away during the confusion into a tent, reappearing on the other side and separated from the gazes of the natives.

_Okay, first part done_

Gardener was proceeding through the camp at a good pace. The horn had called most of the people to the centre, and so the rest of the settlement was mostly deserted. There were a couple of close calls with stragglers who were to busy doing essential jobs or just slower than the rest, but by 1045 Gardener had made it to the door in the cliffs.

As expected, it was locked tight.

_Shit. Come on Gardener get a move on._

Taking a step back, Gardener lit a match and passed it through the bars, providing a little light beyond the door to see inside. Whatever he saw couldn't have been pretty. Booker watched as Gardener recoiled in horror from the door and gagged into his arm, desperately trying to stop the rising bile from escaping and leaving a sign of him being there. After finally winning his battle with his own body, he turned back to Booker, lifting his arm in salute. The signal for the prisoners being found.

_Well that answers that question. Now how do we spring 'em? And what did Gardener see to make him react like that?_

Said infiltrator was slowly making his way back through the camp. He didn't dare rejoin the others as the entire native camp watched, and so he stowed in a tent near to the exit, where he could rejoin them as they left.

Booker had seen a lot of fucked up shit in New York. Whoring, beatings, extortion, even the odd mutilation. But he'd been lucky enough to only see one murder in his time there. It hadn't been pretty.

_Charlie leaps to his feet, cards flying from the table as he upturned it in his desperate bid to escape the man sitting opposite. Booker recoiled in horror as the man takes aim and fires a shot. The room is sent into complete silence, except for the ring in his ears from the aftershock of the noise. Charlie is on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from the small hole in his shoulder. Emotionless, the man flips Charlie onto his back. Bookers eyes widen in shock. It isn't just a hole. The back of Charlie's right shoulder is **gone.** The man pats the corpse down before two cards from its sleeves. He tosses them onto the table, revealing a king and ace of spades. _

"_He cheated" the man says before pocketing his and the corpses earnings and leaving the room._

Booker shook his head clear of the thoughts. It wouldn't help him now.

Everything had been going fine. The natives were mostly preoccupied with the missionaries, and so mostly stuck far away from Gardeners hiding place. But of course the one SOB walking around had to notice the disturbed doorway, and had to care enough to investigate. And of course Gardener had to try and go out swinging.

_A few minutes ago_

It was only because of Wittings quick thinking that the whole lot of them weren't getting shot at. When three more natives had joined the fight it was obvious Gardener had never had a chance, and he was dragged to the centre of the camp. A swarm of angry natives were yelling, both at Gardener and at the missionary group. The same native who held them up at the gate was now two feet from Witting, and he was pissed. Hands in the air, screaming at the top of his lungs. Witting himself was speaking at an incredible rate if his lips were to be believed. Whatever he said seemed enough to persuade the angry natives to redirect their anger away from the group.

Unfortunately, that left them to target Gardener alone.

Witting continued to speak to the injuns, but when he next looked at Gardener, his face was filled with sorrow and remorse. Even through the scope, Booker could read the words the priest spoke next.

_I'm sorry _

Witting left then, looking disgusted with the natives, the world in general, and himself. The congregation, who had the intelligence to stay silent throughout the crisis, looked at Gardener and the departing priest in confusion or sorrow, but eventually followed the priest out of the camp. No one tried to stop them.

_No, no, no! What the hells happening!?_

Booker could do nothing but watch as Gardener was led up to a small timber podium. An Injun stepped behind him and kicked the back of his knees, forcing the unfortunate soldier to his knees. All were silent as another native brought a hatchet up above Gardeners head.

Through the scope Booker saw the beaten man was crying.

The axe came down with the force of a bull.

Gardeners head rolled off the podium.

A bloodstained photograph of a man, women, and younger Gardener in dress uniform fell from the corpses hands, floating away in the wind.

Booker turned away from the grizzly scene, a single tear rolling down his face and one thought in mind.

_Those bastards will pay._

**December 28th 1890 – 1712**

The missionaries had taken the long way back to camp, looping back once they were certain they weren't being followed. They found Booker sitting alone by the remains of last nights fire, idly flicking his knife in his hand. In front of him lay his Springfield, a single line carved into the wood of the butt. It took up very little space; there was plenty of room for more to join it.

Booker had heard the missionaries before he saw them, so he didn't bother to turn to meet them. The others filed past to their "spots", which Booker was perceptive enough to see were all a fair distance from himself. He didn't care. At this point he just wanted to be left alone.

A slightly wrinkled hand rested on his shoulder. Booker turned and was met with the eyes of the priest.

Booker wasn't really sure what to think about Wittings actions. On the one hand, the priest had managed to get both himself and his flock out of an impossible situation without firing a shot, and the natives seemed none the wiser to any attacks being planned.. But Booker couldn't get past the point that he had basically abandoned Gardener to his fate.

_You did the same damn thing Booker, and you know it..._

He realised how true these words were. As Gardener had been led to the podium, he'd had a perfect shot at the bastards. His rifle was loaded, there was little to no wind, and in the confusion Gardener could probably have escaped. So why hadn't he shot.

_For the same damn reason Witting hadn't ordered his men to fire._

If shots had been fired then the whole mission would've been scotched. There was no chance that the group could clear an entire camp out and so the only option would be retreat. If they retreated, the injuns would have time to prepare for another assault. They may even have killed the hostages. No, the only way to save the mission was to let Gardener die.

Witting seemed to acknowledge the acceptance in Bookers expression, and left Bookers side and moved to his flock, ministering to their needs and doing his best to explain what both he and the Private had always known.

**A.N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Wondering how the team will storm an entire camp of natives, free the Comstock's, AND get back before the end of Wounded Knee. Find out in (hopefully) the next chapter.**

**Follows and favourites are always nice, but what I really want to see is reviews. They help we find out what I'm doing good and what needs improving, so please tell me anything you thought about the story so far and I'll do my best to take it into account.**

**Finally, I'm going to be away for a couple of weeks holiday starting Friday. Hopefully I get another chapter out by then, but for a while consider this story on hold, cause there just ain't no WiFi where I'm going,**


	4. Intro - The Massacre at Wounded Knee

**A.N: Hello again guys. This should be the last couple of chapters set in the Wounded Knee period of the Time line. I swear to God this must be the longest prologue EVER for anything. After this we should be moving along to a point where Booker is invited to Columbia, or at least has a huge time skip.**

**As always, please send a review at the end of the chapter whether you like it or hate it. All a follow or favourite tells me is I'm doin****g **_**something**_** right. Reviews are the key to me finding out just what needs improvement and that is damn good motivation.**

**And now, on with the show...**

**CH4 – The Massacre at Wounded Knee**

**December 29****th**** 1890 – 0500**

Dawn was just breaking as Booker woke, and in the east the sun was just cresting over the ridge. Around him the flock was still sleeping, so he was careful to keep quiet when he got up. The fire was practically embers at this point, and the chill of the winter night left everyone shivering in their sleep. Booker resolved to fetch some firewood.

Reaching into the sack he had slung around Mary, he retrieved a small hatchet, looking at it in disgust for a moment as he remembered what a similar weapon had done to his comrade the previous day. Finally, he hooked it to his belt and wandered over to a cluster of trees some 100yards away, not wanting to awaken his fellows. The hatchet proved more than enough to cut through the soggy lumber, and soon Booker was dragging a sizeable pile back towards the remains of the fire. Lighting the drier pieces by match proved enough to start it up, and the wetter ones rapidly began to join them.

Booker heard the person approach before he saw them. Mathias, the man who had been causing trouble the last few days, sat down a few feet away. The two kept to themselves, staring into the dancing waves of the fire in front of them. After about 10 minutes, Mathias finally broke the silence.

"So what's on your mind?"

Booker didn't react in any way. He wasn't really in the mood for a conversation, especially with the man who had made his life so difficult these past few days. Mathias obviously realised this too, but decided to press on regardless.

"Oh come on kid. You and I both know something's got you worried, and it isn't all your dead friend. I'm sorry bout that by the way. No one deserves what they did to 'im..."

Booker finally turned and met Mathias's gaze.

"Nothing you could have done. Getting him out would have cost the whole mission." Booker sighed and held his head in his hands " And yeah you're right. Lean and Vivian should've been back by now. Hopefully they just got lost but..."

"Doubt they're that stupid right?"

"Yeah, Monroe's too good at reading maps for that."

"What do you reckon our odds are without 'em?"

Booker looked over at the man once again, defeat showing just barely in his expression.

"Honestly, I don't know. Head on assault we've got no chance, even if those two were here. And they sure as hell aren't letting you guys back in now."

"Well then I guess we better come up with a new plan."

Though he tried not to show it, Booker couldn't quite hide the incredulous look on his face. "You have any ideas lay 'em on me"

Mathias's face was now grinning.

"Weelllll, while I'm all for killing every SOB in that camp, seems to me we're gonna have to sneak a few guys in somehow, bust out that family, and get the fuck outta there. We can still probably pick a few off if we're quiet."

If Booker had been doubtful before, the look he was giving Mathias now practically screamed _are you crazy!_

"Yeah great plan and all, but how the hell are you gonna get us into that camp at all, in daylight no less!?"

"Simple. We get the quieter guys together into the infiltrating group, and everyone else makes as much noise as they can over the hill. Maybe kidnap one of 'em or something. That should draw away most of the fighting bastards at least."

"That actually might work! But what about the distraction team? They'll get slaughtered if they come in force."

Mathias shook his head at that. "No you don't get it. The distraction only has to draw away the fighters for a few minutes. As soon as the injuns see us, we'll retreat back into the trees and grab some horses. If we're lucky, we'll make it out scot-free and the infiltrators will have plenty of time to bust in and out again. Sounds good right!"

"I can't believe I'm saying this but yeah. I can't think of any better ways at least."

By this point a few others were beginning to stir as well. Witting, slightly ahead of the others, decided to sit with the two men.

"What could you two possibly be discussing at this hour?"

The two men glanced at each-other, before Booker replied.

"How we end this whole thing."

December 29 1890 - 0620

Surprisingly, no one had voiced any complaints to the plan. It was surprisingly sound for one which had been conceived on such short notice. More surprising was how willing most were to play bait for the occasion. The flock had been divided into the two groups. 16 men alongside 7 horses would make up the distraction team, and were led by Mathias after he had revealed he had experience in gunfights. The horses would be overburdened, but there simply weren't enough of them to give to what amounted to acceptable casualties. The remaining 5 men, alongside Booker, made the infiltration group, and had 4 horses between them, 3 for the men and 1 for the hostages. Witting was also in this team, and would be acting as a second in command.

_Over to the west. A shrill scream. Probably a woman's. A gunshot and the scream was gone. Oh Mathias you sick bastard._

The natives obviously heard it too. At that moment, all eyes were pointed westwards. A harsh cry from one of the men in the camp got everyone moving again. It was like an stampede of bison, as over half the camp dove into tents before running back out again, rifles in hands, feet set firmly westwards, and away from Bookers team.

"A'right people we've gotta get down there now!" he spoke in a harsh whisper.

Leaving the horses tied up a few meters into the tree-line, they rushed through the valley towards the Lakota camp. Keeping as low and fast as possible, they burst past the first line of tents. Mathias had done a great job in pulling away the warriors. The camp was almost deserted save for a few stragglers and the children, most of whom hadn't yet woken.

They had made it about halfway to the door when one of the few remaining armed men in the camp passed a tent in front of them. The natives eyes widened in shock as Booker slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs and tackling him to the ground. Somehow, the man was still able to fight back, and using his right hand to fend off the soldier, slipped a knife out from its sheath. It was a simple blade, but still cut deep enough into Bookers shoulder to make him yell out in agony.

Recoiling from the pain, it was only instinct which saved Booker from another swing. The same instinct also caused him to draw his own serrated steel combat knife. Adrenalin coursed through his veins, and his body entered its fight or flight stage. Seeing the winded native still pinned below him, it chose fight.

Blade met blade as both soldier and injun desperately sought to end each-other. Booker was only dimly aware of his comrades around him, unable to safely attack the enemy and so staying at a safe distance as the two men fought to the bitter end.

It felt like minutes had passed by the time the fight was over, but in reality only a few moves were made. After being stabbed, Booker had lunged at the injun, who successfully blocked the attack. Seeing that they were locked in position, Booker took advantage of his superior position on top of the man to head-but the native in the face. The unexpected move proved enough to distracted the native from the knife fight, and Booker took full advantage. Within five seconds of that move, the injun laid dead with a slit throat and two bloody holes carved into his chest.

Booker pulled himself back to his feet.

"Booker, you allright mate?"

"Come on we've gotta get..."

The voices zoned out as Booker stared at the corpse, eyes wide in shock. He'd just killed a man. It wasn't the first corpse he'd seen, Gardener, and Charlie both came to mind, and he'd seen several dead bodies floating down the river back in New York. But one thing he'd never done in his time there, no matter how hungry or angry; no matter how good the offer, was kill another human being.

It scared him how good it had felt. His blade plunging into the man, cutting through flesh and scraping bone.

Looking at the corpse in front of him now made him feel sick. He finally forced his eyes away from the ghastly sight, and watched as his fellows backed away from him, eyes wide in fear and staring at his chest. He looked down uncomprehendingly at himself, before working out why. He was _covered_ in blood and gore, both the dead man's and his own, leaking out from the wound in his shoulder.

Someone's arm grabbed his shoulder. Startled he arched away, turning, knife once again in hand, but it was only Witting.

"We can discuss this later Booker, and tend to your wounds. For now we have to get that family out of here."

_Family... Break out the Comstock's... Kill as many of the native bastards as you can...Avenge Gardener..._

Booker shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. When he turned back to Witting, he was still in a state of shock, but looked better than before.

"Yeah...Yeah let's go."

"Mr Dewitt, sir. That shout you gave might've alerted some of 'em" One of the other men, Michael, whispered to him.

"Too late to worry bout that now. We better get a move on."

And with that, they moved on, leaving the cadaver of the recently living man to grow cold in the winter morning.

"Right lets break through this door."

They'd made it through the rest of the camp with, miraculously, no further incident. It seemed no-one else had been close enough to hear the fight that had gone on mere minutes ago, and the path ahead was fortunately clear of people.

"Dewitt, you sure they're inside?" one of the men asked.

"Gardener's last signal to me said so. Beyond that though, no idea."

Whatever was beyond that door it must've been pretty bad. Booker had seen quite clearly Gardener's expression as he looked through the bars. Absolute horror and disgust. Booker had half a mind to warn the others, but he held back. Last thing he needed was for their morale to drop now, when they were so close.

"Okay, Michael break it down"

Michael was the technician for a nearby town, and had luckily decided to bring his tools with him on for the missionary trip. He had hoped that he could have brought some modern technology as a gift to help persuade the native, but instead they (or more specifically, a crowbar) now served a new purpose; breaking down the door to the prison.

"Okay Dewitt, here we go."

The door came away from the frame with a sharp crack, causing the men to all wince. Hopefully no-one had heard that. Taking a deep breath, Booker pushed through the small opening into the cave beyond. The first thing he noted was the stench.

It was virtually pitch black, the only light coming from the open doorway and a lit torch held on a rack. In the end he was thankful for the dim lighting, because the sight in front of him was straight out of a nightmare. From the cave ceiling, two mutilated corpses had been strung up by their ankles. Their arms had been tied to their torsos and legs to each-other so none of the limbs hung loose. Both had a various cuts and bruises displayed on their limbs and torso, though any blood had drained and dried quite a while before hand. The 1st and older corpse's face was permanently contorted into a silent scream and unrecognisable after the swelling and black and purple bruising, while the other one's was missing entirely, alongside the rest of its head. The others entered he cave behind him, most of them bringing their arms to their mouth in an effort to stop themselves from retching. Several, including Michael, lost that fight when they sore the corpses.

One of the men who had just managed to stop himself spoke first "Holy shit. Is that Gardener?" Booker turned to him.

"Yeah I think so. Sons of bi..."

Witting cut him off "There's nothing we can do but pray he finds heaven now."

"Who's this other one?" Michael asked.

Everyone examined the other corpse. It seemed it had been there far longer than Gardener had, and was beginning to show several signs of decay. Despite this, it was clear to see it had once been a women, and quite a beautiful one at that The remains of a blue Petticoat and dress were held in place by the ropes.

"Not sure, but if I'm right, we've found the wife..." Booker let that comment hang for the others to digest.

"What about the others? Gardener signalled he saw 'em right?"

"Doubt he would've bothered to if he just saw a corpse. Come on we're running out of time."

Grabbing a torch, Booker moved further into the cave, the others following close behind. Every few meters another torch, unlit, was held in a rack, and Booker made it a point to light each one as he passed.

As they proceeded Booker heard a noise. A pitter-patter of something soft hitting unyielding rock. Footsteps, but too quiet to belong to a native or the any grown man for that matter. And now safely ruling out the mother, that left only one explanation; the child. Booker racked his brain as he began to give chase down the passage. What had the Lieutenant said her name was?

_Began with an E. Elle? Eliza? Elizabeth!_

"ELIZABETH!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, hoping that either she or the major would hear. He was now jogging down the corridor himself. "ELIZABETH WAIT!"

The girl didn't reply. _Probably scared outta her wits,_ Booker thought. He knew he would be in her shoes. They finally made it into a chamber, the narrow corridor giving way to a large, box-styled room. Despite his torch, it was too dark to see beyond the circle of light it provided him, so following the edge he proceeded to light several other torches attached to racks.

The girl was facing away from him when he first saw her. She wore a tattered skirt and corset, but they'd obviously once been beautiful; unsurprising considering Major Comstocks financial situation. She was sobbing, the tears falling down her face and practically hyperventilating.

_She's terrified. What did they do to her?_

Slowly, so he didn't alarm the girl too much, he began to move towards her.

"Hey Miss." No response came, so he took another step forward. "Miss!"

**CLANG **" ARGH!"

Booker cried out as a stone the size of his fist was slammed into the side of his head. Luckily he'd made the decision to take his helmet with him, or his brains would probably have been dashed around the cave. He barely had time to react before the 11yr old girl came at him again, rock swinging wildly as she tried to once again smash through the now slightly dented helmet. She was screaming the whole time, but whether in a battle-cry or fear was a mystery to him. Booker just managed to grab hold of the arm she held the blunt tool in, but even with his superior strength he found it difficult to keep a hold on. The other members of the team were arrayed around the pair in a circle, neither willing to risk harming either, nor wanting to face the same fate as Dewitt.

Even when it was clear Booker wasn't going to lose this fight, the girl still fought to break away, pulling at her trapped hand and trying to kick, claw or even bite at the soldier to free herself. Her face was filled with tears, but her expressions were changing to fast for Booker to read them all. He caught onto the fear, anger, rage and then defeat, as she finally accepted she'd lost.

Booker also saw the hope on her face when she actually looked at him properly. The darkness of the cave, even with torches, made this more difficult than it should have been, which may have explained why she had attacked so readily. He didn't doubt that some of her captors would speak English, so really she had had no reason to trust him at all.

"Are you real?" she asked, voice breathless after the short fight.

"Real enough." was his only reply.

As he said that, the entire cave shook, sending pebbles and dust down from the ceiling. Alarmed, eyes wide, the majority of the group turned to Booker and Witting, who had been silent the last few minutes. Most were already shouting.

"EARTHQUAKE!"

"WE'VE GOT TO GET OUT"

"BOOKER LET'S GO"

Booker himself was about to agree, but the little girl tugged on his shoulder, getting his attention.

"Mister, what about my daddy?"

_Dammit, I forgot about the Major. _"Where is he Miss? We'll get him out don't you worry." Booker asked, keeping his voice gentle. Despite how they'd met, he didn't want to distress her any more than she already was. _She'll probably be a handful as she is, and looks like she'll break any moment._

She led him over to the limp body of Major Zachary Hale Comstock. Seeing the state of the man, Booker rushed to his side, putting a finger to his throat. _Come on old man, we've been through too much shit for you to be dead now! _The throat pulsed slightly, and Booker sighed in relief. The Major was alive, _even if it doesn't look like he will be for lon__g, _Booker thought, expression darkening.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he turned to the others. "Okay guys, let's get the hell out!" Michael and another man slung the unconscious man between them while Booker got low enough for Elizabeth to jump on his shoulders. It was the first time he heard her giggle.

**December 29 1890 – 0640**

As the group neared the surface again, Booker noted that the shocks and tremors were becoming more pronounced. That was odd, surely an earthquake would be more noticeable underground than topside?

When the group finally burst outside (Booker successfully managing to cover Elizabeth's eyes as they passed the corpses) they were met with Fire and Brimstone raining down from above. Half of the forest was on fire, and a never-ending hail of bullets were raining down on the camp from 4 carriages to the west. Grenades were being tossed throughout the camp at random, blasting apart tents and natives with equal ease.

"What the fuck is going on!?" one of the men called. Booker remained silent, eyes widening in comprehension as he worked out the answer. The Lakota camp was obviously under attack, and the fire-power involved left only one group responsible.

"It's the 7th Cavalry! Those carriages over there are Hotchkiss guns! We need to move right now!"

Booker turned and ran, the others right behind him as they desperately dashed through the camp.

By some miracle, the repeating fire from the heavy weapons cut off; either because the gunners had spotted the group or friendlies were beginning to enter the camp. Either way, it made travel a lot safer.

That still wasn't enough to save one of the men. Lagging behind, a grenade rolled by his feet. The others just made it out of the blast, but for the straggler it was to close. Chunks of bloody organs flew in all directions. Another man dead because of this mess, but they carried on regardless.

The rest of the team had almost made it to the edge of the camp when they were caught again. 5 injuns, all armed with rifles, and all pointed at the group, held them up. One of them, the leader by the position in front of the group, spoke to them in a heavy accent.

"Give back soldier and the girl!"

"Over my dead body you sons of "

Booker reached for his rifle, but to his dismay, realised at some point he had somehow lost it. _How is that even... fuck the knife fight! That stab must have cut the sling!_

The leader laughed at Bookers obvious distress at the situation.

Elizabeth somehow wasn't crying, but tugged at his shoulder, and when he looked down he saw the pistol hidden between their bodies. As subtly as was possible, he took it from her. The leader was still laughing as he aimed

"Gladly white-m"

**BANG**

The leader fell backwards a a spray of gore exploding from the back of his head as the slagged bullet tore through his skull. The only man left who was holding a weapon in Bookers group was Witting. Taking advantage of the distraction, he fired of a round, sending another native to the floor. That still left three ready to fire though. Booker only had time for one last move. Elizabeth finally screamed as she was tossed to the side.

**BANG BANG BANG**

The force of the shots sent Booker onto his back, bleeding heavily from the left arm and chest. The third shot hit one of the men carrying the Major. The man collapsed dead, a hole cutting through his heart. Booker was somehow still barely conscious. He didn't have the strength to move, but he'd fallen just so that he saw the next few events clearly, though he wouldn't recall them later on.

The three remaining injuns were loading their shots, intent on killing the last few members of the team in the next volley. Witting and the others had thrown themselves to the ground, desperate to escape the warriors. And then, the warriors were on the floor two, blood flooding out of several gunshot wounds. Several men on horseback entered his vision, with two familiar faces at the front. Bookers head fell to the side, and his vision darkened to black.

**A.N: And there's Bookers involvement in Wounded Knee. For those annoyed at how he isn't 'The White Injun' in this verse know that Bookers guilt is not supposed to be nearly as bad here. It stems more from losing his men than killing, and Booker won't become the drunken gambler he is the 'main' verse.**

**As always, please leave a review of the story so I actually have a starting point for improvement. Next chapter should be the last in this intro setting, and will focus more on Liz.**


	5. Intro - Aftermath

**A.N: Hey people. Sorry it's taken so long for this update but I have an excuse. As I've said previously I've been away the past 2 weeks with zero access to WiFi or a word program, so this has been sitting here for since. **

**This chapter is a different setting style to the previous ones and follows mostly Elizabeths perspective. I've spent ages longer than usual trying to get it right and still think I've messed it up, but hey, hopefully you guys can tell me how I've done that (Yes I have just shamelessly asked for reviews once again).**

**Thanks to****pattie103, MonkeyFish997, IkeTheDog, Rex, Loyal Fan and an unnamed guest for their support through reviews/favourites/follows. **

**UPDATE) The update to this chapter is not essential to reread, but it does add additions to Slates dialogue and Booker and Comstocks Baptism (Not the one from the game ending), so it will probably be used for plot points later. It also changes the summing up at the end slightly.**

**CH5-Aftermath**

**January 2****nd**** 1891 – 1033**

"The wounds he received have effectively sent him into a coma. Thanks to Private Monroe's and Manley's fortunate arrival at the scene, he received medical attention just before he bled out. It was a close thing, but he just made it. We're just waiting for him to wake up now, but honestly, he could die first, or he could wake up any minute. We really have no idea..."

"Thank you doctor. Be sure to tell me if anything changes. Elizabeth, let's go."

Zachary Hale Comstock turned away from the camp medic and limped towards the door, supported by two crutches. Despite this, he still maintained a certain stature that demanded respect and even obedience from others. This was a man most comfortable in a leadership role. His daughter stomped her feet on the ground, causing him to turn back into the room.

"Daaddy. I want to stay a bit longer. Pleeaase!"

Comstock sighed. Only a few days ago both of them had been prisoners to an armed and violent group of native americans, and his wife, his daughters mother, had been killed. Yet somehow his girl was already sinking back into normal routine. He had assumed therapy would be a must for the both of them, but here she was, acting just like her usual self. He wasn't sure whether he should be worried or relieved.

_Maybe she hasn't understood a lot of it. Too young for all that I'm sure._

"Okay girl fine. You stay here with Mr Dewitt. I'll be in therapy when you're done." Comstock turned towards the exit.

"Okay daddy. Thank you!" she replied, a beaming smile on her face.

The smile dropped as soon as her father had left though. She hated having to act like a spoilt little brat half her age, but it was the only way to talk her father round to any of her suggestions lately.. Despite her best efforts to appear mature, he never really stopped seeing her as a small child. When she'd first started to go through puberty a month ago, he simply hadn't believed it, and any questions she asked him about why she felt so odd were deflected or outright shot down.

"_Daddy I don't feel so..."_

"_Elizabeth you're fine._

"_But dad I..._

"_No buts Elizabeth! You're completely fine! NOTHING HAS CHANGED!"_

Despite the hole it left in her heart, Elizabeth was beginning to understand that her Father, and her Mother too, had been in denial about a whole lot of things as she grew up. Her wanting to learn subjects like physics. Not taking enough interest in her embroidery and subjects more 'suitable' for the fairer sex. Growing up, it seemed as if the more independent she got the more disappointed her Father became with her.

She wasn't going to stop though. If captivity and her mothers death had taught her one thing, it was that her embroidery hadn't made any difference at all. Elizabeth had been pretty much helpless her entire time in captivity. Her Mother had been more so, and had paid the price for it. Her father had given her mother a loaded pistol before she was killed, but even when Elizabeth had gotten it from her body she hadn't been able to work out how to fire it.

No one had outright told her yet, but she wasn't stupid, and if her Father was up and walking, but Mother was nowhere to be found, then she couldn't have made it out. In the cage, she'd spent what felt like days crying, as any loving daughter would, but finally she'd realised that wallowing in grief and self-pity wouldn't help in any way. Mother was gone. Better to move on quickly rather than break down because of it.

So she'd kept herself busy there, and now in the camp too, doing odd-jobs and chores wherever she could. Most of the soldiers were being pretty friendly to her, either because they felt sorry or genuinely enjoyed her company. There were exceptions of course. Neither of the two who had helped save the infiltration group had spoken a word to her since they'd got back to camp, though she'd caught both of them glaring at her from behind. She suspected it was due to the grave they both visited regularly, alongside the unconscious Private Dewitt, who she knew they were friends with.

Elizabeth wasn't sure why she wanted to wait beside the comatose soldier. Maybe she wanted to thank him when he woke? Maybe she was worried by how vulnerable he was, and wanted to return the favour he gave to her? She wasn't sure, and that annoyed her to some degree. Whatever the reason, when she hadn't been working, she'd tried to be by Bookers bedside, much to the confusion of her Father. While he understood her wanting to thank the boy who had saved both their lives (so did he) he didn't see why she wasted so much time at a sleeping man's side when she could have been getting reintroduced to her old schedule. It wasn't like he would be getting up anytime soon.

"Urgh...what the hell..."

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Private Dewitt's voice was dry and throaty, and it seemed like the man was finding it difficult to breath, let alone speak. Unsurprising she thought, considering he'd only had a trickle of water to keep him alive the past few days. Booker tried to rise, but she pushed him back down onto the bed. She didn't want him hurting himself so soon after waking, or ever for that matter. In his weakened state he couldn't put up much resistance.

"mmmuhh… Where, am I?"

"Back in the land of the living." she replied, looking both concerned and relieved to see him awake.

"hurgh…Water..."

Nodding, Elizabeth reached over to the night-stand next to the mattress and retrieved a glass of lukewarm water the medic had left. Booker was too weak to hold the glass properly himself, so she held it to his lips and watched, making sure he drank it slowly. He tried to reach out and take it himself, so she pulled it back, an annoyed look on her face. "You almost died you need to..."

"Let me, do it..." His tone left no room for argument.

Sighing, she let him take the cup, fully expecting him to spill the contents everywhere. So she was definitely shocked when the man not only took the cup and drank the contents, but also was able to support himself as he leaned to put it back on the nigh-stand. Taking advantage of her heightened position above him Elizabeth gave him a quick once over. His torso was mostly wrapped in bandages, stained slightly red from the last of the bleeding but otherwise clean. Despite this, it was apparent that Booker was in good shape, if a little skinny from the coma. His physique couldn't hold a candle to some of the gorillas she'd seen around the camp, but by civilian or even a young soldiers standards it was pretty impressive. He was clean shaven, though hair was beginning to grow around his chin and mouth. She was surprised by how old he looked. Not physically; in that regard he was still little more than a boy, if more scarred than usually, but his expression was one that revealed no emotions other than distrust and indifference, and it seemed to add several years to him. She found herself looking into his eyes trying to read him, but they were as guarded as his expression. Booker knew how to keep secrets.

She looked away before her staring became too obvious.

"Well, I'd better call the medic. You look okay, for someone who took two bullets, but I don't really know about this stuff…"

Booker cleared his throat "Yeah please, you do that."

Elizabeth turned and walked towards the door. Just before she reached it she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Booker was staring at the roof, the effort of supporting his head to much for his drained state.

"Mr Dewitt?"

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to say… You… Thank you, for saving us."

Booker forced his head to face the girl in the doorway. He paused for a moment, contemplating his next words to her.

"Wasn't just me who saved you."

And with that, his gaze went to the ceiling once more. Elizabeth left to find a doctor.

**January 3****rd**** 1891-1232**

Captain Cornelius Slate was in a damn fine mood. As the commanding officer of Booker, Manley and Monroe's unit, Comstock had decided that he was therefore largely to thank for both his own and his daughters rescue. Thus, ex-lieutenant Slate had been promoted, and was now on the Majors fast-track list for further positions in the military.

But if there was one thing Slate hated, it was taking credit for someone else's job well done.

"Private Booker Dewitt, do you remember what I said to you the day you joined my unit. I'll give you a hint. It began with 'I don't care how you did it…"

"…as long as the job gets done. Sir."

"Damn right I did, Dewitt. And I've gotta say, I wasn't expecting you to finish this one. None of us were."

"Well I appreciate the confidence. Sir." Bookers tone was laced with sarcasm.

Slate held up a hand "Careful boy, I'm still you're CO even if you can't walk yet. The point is, you got both the Major and his little girl out in one piece with minimal casualties, and you even softened up a key target and got us crucial intel on that camp."

"Sir?" Booker asked, silently asking his real question.

"Oh yes Manley and Monroe both arrived at our base camp at around 8 o'clock. They were able to fill us in on your plan plus the layout and defences of the camp"

Booker nodded to this. It made sense and explained their late arrival to the scene. But that wasn't what he'd been asking.

"Dewitt, I'm promoting you to corporal. A couple of the vets were taken out of action in the battle and after the way you handled this op I know you can be trusted. Keep it up and you'll be a sergeant by next year at most. Oh and don't worry about Privates Manley and Monroe by the way. I've already seen to it that they're moved up to PFC and lance corporal, respectively."

"Thank you Sir, but I've just got one question."

"Yes my boy?"

Booker paused to take a breath. He knew he wouldn't like this but he had to know. "Who'd we lose?"

For the first time Booker saw Slates expression become mournful. "The 7th lost around 20 men and killed about 100 of the SOB's. I'm assuming by losses you mean in your teams in the final minutes. One of your guys was killed carrying Comstock and the priest was blinded by shrapnel wounds. That lad Michael took a bullet as well. He died in camp two days ago.

"No..."

"I'm sorry Booker. And there's more bad news. The team you sent out to distract the Injuns, they were overrun before we got there. Six dead and the rest suffering from some pretty serious wounds. The gave more than they got though."

"Dammit. Th-This is all my fault! I sent them out there! I was supposed to protect my team. And what now?! Almost all of them are dead. They weren't even soldiers!" Booker was on the verge of openly crying.

Slate wouldn't allow that to happen though. He spoke with the loud clear voice of a drill sergeant, and he demanded authority. "Stand down Dewitt. This isn't on you. Frankly the casualties were pretty low compared to what could have happened, and you got your objectives out. The mission was a bloody success!"

"Sir I understand that. It just damn well doesn't feel like it!"

Slate sighed "It never will..."

He walked out of the tent, leaving Booker to think on what he'd just heard.

**January 4th 1891 - 0130**

It took all her patience and cunning, but after sneaking out of her tent and past the guards Elizabeth was exploring some more of the area around the camp. She'd already seen most of it, but each day and night little things would be different - the ground more muddy, more dry, a couple of rabbits by the stream. Elizabeth looked at all this in wonder. She'd always wanted to get outside, see everything, experience everything, and now she could. Back before her abduction Elizabeth and her mother had lived on a well-to-do but ultimately isolated estate, about 15 miles away from the nearest town, which itself was only small and several miles from the next.

As a young girl growing up in this environment, it wasn't very surprising to find Elizabeth had become rather mature and independent compared to many girls her age, though due to her parents natural tendencies to be overprotective of her she was also considerably more naïve and idealistic. They had kept her away from the few other children and she'd only really been friends with one or two of the servants, who spoke little beyond polite greetings and nods. Well them and her pet songbird. However, it had taught her that acting the rouge was much more fun than staying 'prim-and-proper'.

Elizabeth had been 'exploring' for about an hour when she decided to go have a peek past the ridge line of the hills to the west of the camp. She'd been specifically ordered by her father not to pass out of sight of the camp, but then he'd also said bed-time was 8:30. Besides, what she saw there was too much for her curious mind to ignore.

Around 20m past the hill was a strange shimmering streak, crackling like lightning but pinned to one spot. It was in the dead centre of a shallow river, which split in two around a small island just beyond the fantastical anomaly. Like much of the area, it was a beautiful sight. A small hut was built on top of the little island, lit up by the bright glow of the tear.

While clever enough to understand that it was probably safer to turn back to the camp away from the energy, Elizabeth began to edge towards it, curiosity getting the better of logic. Tentatively, and not looking away for a moment, she stepped into the river, hiking up her skirt to keep her clothes as dry as possible. When she was about 5 meters away, she stopped short and examined it further. It seemed as if the more she focused on it, the bigger it became, to the point that she realised it was not a strip of energy, but an 3D spherical shape. Water rushed through the outline, but when it did, it seemed as if the current was changed, for it bent and moved at a different angle to the rest of the river. Looking round, Elizabeth was shocked to see that through the energy, the waters direction was different to what it was when one looked past it, and for some reason the hut would disappear from the island. Despite a passing knowledge of physics from her reading, she was stumped as to what the strange energy could be, or what was causing it.

Tentatively, Elizabeth took another step towards the tear and reached out. It was now big enough to walk right on through, and to her horror, it was still exponentially increasing in size. More and more of the area in front of her was engulfed by the window; it was too late for her to get out of the way. Elizabeth screamed out in desperation.

And just like that, the wave passed over her and Elizabeth was taken to another universe.

Unimaginable agony pounded her skull as her mind fought desperately to understand what had just occurred. It was lucky that she had no real conscious understanding of the event or it would likely have sent her into madness. Her knees buckled beneath her. Static played around the corners of her vision, which was blinded again by the sudden shift from darkest night to day, and she could barely hear the river over the high pitched ringing in her ears.

Though her vision and hearing remained dulled, the worst of the pain soon passed. Elizabeth finally looked up at the new world, though at the time of course she wasn't aware that it was. A man, in his 30's or 40's, was standing in the river a few meters from her, and with him was Preacher Whitting, one of the men who had rescued her! The man wasn't looking at either of them though, but at the eight or so women behind him. They were all different, but looked extremely similar.

"Of course it is I remember..." The man looked very confused at the situation, seeming to only see the lady directly in front of him "Wait, you're not...you're not...who are you?"

The women to the left in a bloodstained outfit replied first "You chose to walk away..."

"But in other oceans..." from a women on the right in a corset.

"You didn't." A fourth women, from the left, entered his vision. She had the same outfit as the first woman, but details like her hair and body were slightly different.

"You took the Baptism..." The woman in the middle spoke up again. She looked at the man with pity, her expression clouded with sadness.

" and you were born again as a different man."

Realisation finally appeared on the mans face, though with it came only sorrow.

"Comstock..." The name came out only as a whisper. If she hadn't been immobile from pain, she would have started.

_What does my family have to do with this?_

Two more women stood in front of him. "It all has to end..."

"To have never started..."

"Not just in this world..."

"But in all of ours."

Once again the man spoke in a whisper, talking more to himself than the assembled group. "Smother him in the crib..." They took up the word like a hellish chorus, whispering it in the wind.

"Smother."

"Smother." 

"S-Smother-S-Smother-Smother"

"Before the choice is made."

The woman in the centre took a step towards him "Before you are reborn."

Seemingly unaware of the events around him, Witting had carried on his preaching. He finally came to an end, asking the man one question.

"And what name shall you take, my child?"

The final two women gripped his arms. They would never let go.

"He's Zachary Comstock."

"He's Booker Dewitt."

"No, I'm both."

Booker Dewitt was forced under the current of the river. There was no conscious struggling from the beaten man. He wasn't let back out.

When his body had stopped thrashing as it desperately sought the air so close to it, the river became the only sound. Witting had disappeared, though where was anyone's guess. One by one, the women arrayed around the corpse vanished, having never existed in the first place, until only the first women, in her blue petticoat and corset, was the only one left. She raised her head up, seemingly seeing Elizabeth for the first time.

"You cannot understand what you have seen here. In truth I, barely understand it myself." This was added with a bitter laugh, more of a sob than anything else "Please, I know you don't understand, have no reason to trust me, but please. Promise me...promise me you'll take care of him, whatever he has done, wherever he is. Fate has a habit of pushing you two...us, together, no matter what, and it almost always ends in tears. Promise?"

* * *

Elizabeth still couldn't speak, dumbstruck by both the shock and the pain of what she had experienced. But the woman must have seen something in her eyes because she nodded and turned away. She put her hands together, and pulled them apart again, as if wrenching open a door. Another tear opened over the river, sending Elizabeth back. This time, there was no pain, but a sense of relief as she was transported back to her native world. Her vision and hearing were still overloaded by the experience. Elizabeth passed out on the riverside, blood running from her nose and down her hands.

**January 3rd 1891 – 0143**

Booker had awoken in the night, torn from his nightmare by the scream. It was one of pure terror and desperation, the kind a person made when they knew their only chance was someone else's aid. Though groggy from his sudden awakening, it was clear as day that it belonged to a little girl.

_Shit, only one of them in the camp!_

Taking only a few seconds to put on some trousers and boots, and grab his trusty Springfield (which he'd been told was recovered from the Lakota camp after the battle), Booker rushed outside. Most of the camp had stayed asleep, though a few were rising from their tents wondering what the noise was, and a few began rousing others from their slumbers. Booker ignored all this though, instead concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as he raced as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of the terrified girl. Considering he should by rights be dead, to be up and running so soon after taking two shots and a knife to the chest was miraculous.

Looking over the ridge line Elizabeth had so recently crossed, he could just barely make out the outline of the river as it passed around the small island. The tear had long since vanished, and with it the light from the other world it provided, leaving Booker to traverse the loose ground by light of the moon and stars alone.

_We're to close to the camp for natives to get her again. Could she have fallen in the river? She's only little, and what are the chances she can swim?_

Booker waded into the water. The current threatening to rip him from the bottom and carry him away. The recent interference from the tear had stirred up the water into a torrent, though at the time of course he didn't know that. What he did know was that a lot of debris washed up on the shores of the island, hence him entering the river. He was about three quarters of the way across when he saw her, limp and washed up at the stairs of the hut.

"Elizabeth!" In the dark of the night the blood running down from her nose looked jet black, like oil. "It's okay, I've got you."

"Urghh..." She was beginning to wake up, the events of the last few minutes still in her memory, but less clear than before. "...Mr...Mr Dewitt..."

Booker looked down at her, bleeding, exhausted and cold, but still sticking to formalities. She was certainly different. "It's just Booker, okay." It was more of a joke than serious, but she wasn't laughing.

"I...I...saw you die. I saw you die..." She started to babble, the words mixing and tumbling as they came out of her mouth. Booker couldn't make heads or tails of it.

_Dammit she's going into shock. Might have hypothermia or something too._

He lifter her up bridal style, and began to carry her back towards the camp. She gave no resistance, either too exhausted or too in shock to try. Booker felt something run down his chest , but assuming it was just the river water, let it go. It was only when he reached the ridge line that he realised it was still running, and too warm to be just river water. Gently, he lowered the girl and laid her on the ground, carefully selecting a dry flat rock as a base. It wasn't ideal, but he needed to see what was causing the bleeding.

It didn't take long to find the problem. Elizabeth's pinky finger was missing after the first knuckle.

**January 25th 1891 – 1330**

Elizabeth and her father were leaving Wounded Knee Camp in a few days. It had taken a while, but Elizabeth had eventually recovered from the physical and emotional trauma of the events on January 3rd. Her finger had thankfully not become infected, mostly because it had been cauterised almost as soon as they'd got back, and a more permanent solution was awaiting her back on their home estate. Truthfully, she had been going stir-crazy in the camp these last few weeks. She'd been confined to the medical tent until a couple of days ago and was bored out of her mind for most of that time. Really the only reason she'd stayed sane was Booker and some of the other men, who'd come in to chat or play cards when they were off duty and her father wasn't looking. It turned out she was quite the card shark.

Bookers injuries had forced, or rather allowed him to remain in the medical tent. He was never supposed to have been moving at all and the effort of wading through a small river and carrying a little girl back had only exasperated his already fairly serious injuries. He didn't mind at all. If he wasn't in medical, he'd be out on guard duty instead, which was the same thing but in the rain. Plus, Monroe, Manley and a few of the other men had been visiting, so it wasn't like he'd been left with nothing at all but spare time. Besides, for an 11yr old girl who'd just been through hell and back Elizabeth was surprisingly fun to talk to. They spent a lot of time talking about Elizabeth's life, and how she'd been mostly isolated from the outside world for many years. Booker was more guarded over his own life. He didn't like to talk about it, and he didn't want to ruin the girls cute and naïve ideas that the world was such a nice place. He was surprised the injuns hadn't beaten it out of her to be honest, but it was an endearing feature. He put it down as one of her many quirks.

"Corporal Dewitt."

"Major?"

Comstock looked up from the floor of the medical tent at the stricken man on the bed. The man who'd saved him, and his little girl, twice in the space of a few weeks.

Comstock wasn't sure whether to thank Booker or punch him. While it was true, he had saved them, trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went, and though even to himself he didn't admit it, he partially blamed Booker for Elizabeth's most recent injury, and the death of his wife. If he'd arrived a few days earlier, she would still be alive. But what's done is done, and it wasn't Bookers fault that his daughter had snuck off into the night.

"I wanted to thank you. I've been...unfair to you these past weeks. You've shown me and my daughter nothing but kindness, and I've spat it all back in your face. I was hoping we could start again, in better circumstances than before. Besides, it's only right I reward the man who saved us!"

Comstock drew his revolver out. Booker naturally flinched away from the gun that was pointed at him, unsure whether Comstock was joking or not. He relaxed a little when the man laughed and flipped the gun in his hands, displaying surprising skill for a non-combat officer. Gripping the gun by the barrel, he passed it to Booker.

This is a Colt 1851 Navy Hand Cannon. If you're into guns, you may know it as the Paddywhacker too. Treat it well and you can take down a small elephant in one or two shots, and it's damn accurate as well." He held it up to Booker almost reverently. Booker clasped his hands around the grip. It fit perfectly.

"This gun must have been worth a small fortune. I'm really grateful, but why are you giving it to me?"

"Because Corporal, my daughter is priceless." Booker nodded to this. He understand, though not completely of course – he wasn't a father - how much a person could be willing to give up for someone they cared about. Comstock shook his head, remembering something "Oh by the way, I thought you'd like to know, the priest you were with, Witting? He's holding a service by the riverside, where you found her. Thought you might like to give your men a formal send-off."

Booker met his gaze. He was slightly surprised to see honesty and a little sorrow in the man's eyes, but also that, though he wouldn't say it, Comstock was seeking his forgiveness for his recent behaviour. "Yeah I do. When's the ceremony?

Comstock smiled "About an hour from now."

_ One hours later_

"Booker, please don't go there" Elizabeth had been arguing with him about going to the ceremony for the past 40minutes since she found out. Something was clearly scaring her, but Booker was damned if he knew what. She'd even asked to go with him, but he doubted she'd enjoy the affair an Comstock would definitely be pissed.

"And why not Elizabeth. It's just a funeral."

_Maybe she's just scared of the place because of her injury?_

"I..I can't...I can't tell you. You'll just think I'm mad. Please" her voice dropped to little more than a strangled whisper tears formed in her eyes. "Please don't go."

Booker looked down and sighed. "Elizabeth, it's just a funeral. I'm not leaving those people without a proper send-off. I owe them too much"

Elizabeth sunk back into her bed, defeated "Ok, but please, Mister Dewitt. Please be careful."

"I will, and it's just Booker. The last part was said with a grin. It was quickly becoming a joke between them how Elizabeth would insist on calling him by his surname.

Dressed in his uniform, which he'd just had time to clean the worst of the grime off, Booker trudged out over the hill and towards the river. He was moving at a snails pace. He was never supposed to have been moving at all. When he finally made it to the island, he saw a crowd arranged around the priest, all up by the hut. He recognised a few faces: Mathias. Witting, some of the women and kids who'd been there when they met the group.

Witting had a bandage wrapped over his eyes but otherwise seemed the same as normal, if uncharacteristically sombre. Booker didn't blame him. He was certain that Witting had been close to most of the men who where killed. Booker had only truly known Gardener, but even one death had been horrifying to watch.

"Ahh Booker. We were just about to start. Come on in here and we'll begin."

Booker took his place, next to Comstock, in front of the congregation. A space had been flattened to fit the many bodies that were to be buried that day. With no further reason to delay, Witting began.

"Today we gather, to give farewell and thanks to the departed, taken from us by heathen gun and blade. The men before you were martyrs, one and all, giving up their very lives to save an innocent family..."

Wittings voice became a dull droning in the background to Bookers ears. All he could focus on were the coffins before him, each containing one of _his failures._ These men had depended on him, on his plan, and it was his fault they were dead. Every one of these deaths were on him. Gardener, Michael, they'd all been following him, and he led them astray. He wondered what they would be doing if he'd never found them. They'd probably be home by now, swapping tales of their missionary work with friends and families, eating, drinking, having a life. He'd taken all that from them, and now it was too late to give it back.

"Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Open wide, O earth, and receive them that was fashioned from thee by the hand of God aforetime, and who returneth again unto Thee that gave them birth. That which was made according to his image the Creator hath received unto himself; do thou receive back that which is thine own."

"Amen" Booker mumbled, along with the rest of the crowd. Wives wept alongside the children old enough to understand. The younger ones looked confused, wondering why everyone was so sad and wondering when their dad's would come home. Booker had failed every one of them.

The crowd finally began to disperse, some returning to their homes, and some to the camp, too exhausted to make the journey back to the nearest town. A few remained though. Booker himself was about to join the second group, but was held back by the Major. Witting moved to join then.

"Booker my child, before the end, I told you I would be willing to have you reborn under God, if you wished it. I have to ask you now, before I depart for home. Do you wish it?"

Booker doubted a wash in the river could ever remove the blood on his hands, but at this point he was willing to try.

"I do" It came out as a hoarse whisper.

Witting, paused, looking for hesitation or doubt. He couldn't find it. "Take my hand, both of you." He led Dewitt and Comstock down into the river. Booker was dimly aware that the current had lowered dramatically since the last time he'd been her, though seeing as he'd been much weaker he put it down to exhaustion at the time.

"Booker Dewitt. Zachary Comstock. Are you ready to have your past erased? Are you ready to have your sins cleansed? Are you ready to be born again?"

"I am." They both whispered the words in unison, their voices indistinguishable from each other, so that it sounded like only one person had spoken.

"Do you hate your sins?" Wittings voice had previously been subdued, as suited the sorrowful mood of the funeral, but now it perked up, the fervour evident in his words and attitude.

"I do." They spoke again, both of their minds reminded of the atrocities they had seen, caused or ignored, both at Wounded Knee and before. The guilt was overwhelming.

"Do you hate your wickedness?"

"Yes." Their voices rose slightly, empowered by the self-loathing they shared at that moment.

"Do you want to clean the slate, leave behind all you were before, and be born again in the blood of the lamb"

"Yes!" As he said this, Booker looked at the congregation. Most were either in prayer or watching the event around him, looking generally happy. Bookers gaze was drawn to one in particular. It was a woman, standing slightly away from the others, with brown hair and bright blue eyes; eyes which had clearly seen far too much for one her age, and were now watching both him and Comstock with concern and what certainly looked like _fear_. She was dressed far more expensively than any of the other observers, wearing a Whit silk corset and blue skirt and Petticoat. For some reason she seemed incredibly familiar, as if he'd known her long ago, but he couldn't for the life of him work out why. He'd definitely remember if he'd seen her.

"Jesus, wash these men..." Bookers vision and hearing were crippled by a burst of static and he winced in pain. Booker felt sudden and overwhelming regret at his words. The lives of the men he had failed, the men he'd killed. It was all to much to simply drop by a river. This couldn't possibly be suitable penance for his crimes. A glance at Comstock revealed no similar feelings, but he too was looking at the woman in blue. Maybe Comstock was less attached to his guilt? Maybe he didn't feel it so bad? Booker suspected the opposite was true though. Perhaps he was tired of carrying it around, and could lift it no longer?

What Booker knew for sure though, was that, if there was a God, it certainly wouldn't forgive him for dunking his head in a river. Some sins can't be forgiven.

"Stop... Stop it...STOP!"

Booker opened his eyes again. The assembled group were all watching him, some looking intrigued, shocked or even disgusted by his interruption. Booker looked to the floor. His body was heaving with sobs and he was a snap away from hyperventilating.

"I... I'm sorry. I...I can't do this." He pushed as gently as he could out of the circle, not meeting anyone's eyes, and jogged away towards the camp in silence. He couldn't bear to stay, fearing the constant reminder of his sins.

Witting watched the man go. He was disappointed that Booker could not accept the rebirth, but he thought he understood the reasons, and couldn't bring himself to blame the man. After all, he'd nearly done the same thing at his own baptism. Comstock however, looked on with anger, not able to contemplate why Booker would not only reject his baptism so close to its completion, but put such a sour note on his own as well. He looked back to where he'd seen the woman in blue, but she was gone.

Booker was well on his way to the camp before he realised his nose was bleeding.

**January 27h 1891**

Today Major Comstock and Elizabeth would be leaving for their home near Chicago. It was a damn long journey but the recent 'eviction' of the Lakota injuns meant that railway lines were already being built into the area, so it was a few days travel at most. Comstock hadn't spoken to Dewitt since the failed baptism, and Elizabeth had been forbidden from seeing him, though she had snuck out of the medical tent a few times to meet with him and his fellow soldiers. It had only been a couple of days since the baptism, but Comstock's personality was already beginning to change. He seemed more driven, focused, and genuinely appeared to have put the sins of the past behind him, replacing it with frequent visits to the chapel. But with this change came a sort of callousness. He was becoming colder, less caring, to most except Elizabeth, who he still loved dearly.

Booker would stay at Wounded Knee for some time after this day, and then in several other military operations around the US. He would be promoted to the rank of Sergeant in October that year, and with him Lean Manley and Vivian Monroe would also follow, the first reaching corporal in February 1892 and the latter to sergeant herself in May.

On December 12th 1892, while on leave, Booker met a woman by the name of Mary Holloway at a pub back in New York. She was a nice girl, not sore on the eyes and a bubbly personality, so after several bottles of whisky and other alcoholic beverages had left both of them completely drunk and uninhibited, it wasn't a huge shock when Booker woke up to find Mary next to him in his bed. More at her request than anything else they married before weeks end. Two months later she revealed she was pregnant with his child.

Back in Chicago, Comstock continued to pour money from both his personal funds and those granted to him by Congress into a poorly kept secret project, which had been running for some time now. Though no-one was aware at the time of the nature of the project, it was typically viewed as a plan to create a symbol of American superiority over the modern world, and that it was labelled as **Project: Columbia.**

**A:N Well that was really difficult to write. Turns out ideas come into my head a lot quick when physical things are actually happening than when I have to describe characters and stuff, but what can you do. I'm in this for the long haul and I ain't gonna let it stop me :D**

**BTW the last part was just a quick timeline to explain some points which will probably come up later in this fic, and so it doesn't just completely skip 2 years into the future.**

**As usual, any ideas on how to improve it or things to avoid etc etc please leave reviews or PM me with you're suggestions (I know I'm completely shameless right XD)**

**Thanks for your support and I will see you in the next chapter!**


	6. Main - Last Job Before You End it All

**A.N: Yeah I know it's completely unrealistic that both Booker and Monroe make sergeant within 3 years of active service, but then again he was a corporal before he turned 18 in the main verse soo...**

**Yh Bookers wife is pretty tacked onto the plot line of this. I kind of have to mention it seeing as she's a pretty major point in any romance fic, but tbh we never really find out much about her, and she only really comes up once or twice. Suffice it to say, she's involved here more to show Bookers relationship with her before the main events are set in motion, so don't expect a huge backstory. (Maybe in a separate fic or one-shot, once I get this story in the air)**

**Just a quick suggestion readers. Bioshock Infinite has possibly one of the most atmospheric instrumental soundtracks I've ever heard in a game, or anywhere else. Believe me when I say if you pick the right piece for the section you're reading you'll be a lot more immersed in the story. I certainly was while writing it at least. One of my personal favourites is Elizabeth's Theme, perfect for those sombre moments or bitter-sweet ones.**

**Soundtrack link here: **watch?v=VWRoq1ymyTI&list=PL3QZUm48uWnsdFakp3A2fI-NzmfH1jyQe

**Elizabeth's Theme Link here:** watch?v=hwDzbZcUTok

**Lastly just want to say cheers to all of you who've left reviews for this fic, and anyone who liked or faved. Special thanks to REX for your continued support and suggestions for this fic. You're right to wonder how lil ol' Liz will take care of our more than capable protagonist. All will be revealed...later.**

**Also thanks to Darman Skirata and Monkeyfish997 for your reviews. Glad to hear you like it so far. I'll try not to f*** it up to bad now then eh?**

**UPDATE: Little added in this update. Just grammar corrections + a few slight improvements. Not worth rereading!**

**So let's get on with it then.**

**CH6-One Last Job Before You End It**

**July 10th 1893 – 0300**

It had been a little under three years since the events at Wounded Knee. Sergeant Booker Dewitt was on leave for a short time from military service, both as he'd been working solidly for some time now and it was also fast approaching the time his heavily pregnant wife, Mary, would be giving birth to their child. The child was due in about two months.

It had taken them a while, and plenty of arguing, but eventually they'd decided on the names of their child. If it was a boy, he'd be called Andrew. A girl would be called Anna, after Mary's grandmother. Booker still didn't like the name Andrew, but seeing as Mary had been originally planning to call a boy Jackrum, he settled for the compromise.

Booker wasn't sure what to make of the family life forming around him. He'd never really seen himself settling down, let alone so early in his life. Indeed, at the start he'd married Mary more to avoid a public scandal and out of a sense of obligation due to their deed the days before. He' couldn't deny that the relationship had improved since then, blossoming into a very real love between the two of them, but Booker still remembered how it had started, much to his shame.

Despite his marriage to Mary, Booker still spent most of his time with the military, not able to face the idea of a quite life in the city. He guessed he'd have to get used to that soon. It was doubtful that Mary would allow him to leave again for a long time once the kid was born. Though he'd put up an admirable attempt at blocking it from reaching the outside world, he still felt the pain from his failure back at _that_ place. He'd be damned if he ever failed his new family too. He was going to do this right.

The apartment he and Mary shared had already had a spare storage space converted into a tiny nursery. It wasn't ideal, but realistically they only had a small amount of money to spare - mostly savings from Bookers wages which he'd rarely had to use due to being on the field - and they certainly couldn't afford to convert a larger room or build and extension. Mary was going to have to stay at home , so that was there secondary source of revenue gone as well.

"Booker, can you get some groceries. We're running a bit low." Mary called from the hallway. Booker rose from the sofa, where he'd been lounging for most of the day, and walked to the doorway. He gave Mary an affectionate pat on her clearly swollen stomach before giving her a playful peck on the lips. Whenever he got cold feet about his fast approaching family life, it was moments like these that reminded him why it was worth it. Just simple things, a kiss on the cheek, an appreciative nod on the bad days. It reminded him of just how lonely he'd been out in the field. Sure in the army you were never alone, but there were few to none there you would trust to keep your secrets, who you knew would support you unconditionally, regardless of what you did. Booker had Mary, and Mary had him, so he was content, happy in the knowledge that she trusted him just as much as he did her. Sharing the guilt of his past had certainly helped calm his troubled soul , though he felt a little guilty knowing he had passed it onto her like that.

"Sure Darlin'. Anything in particular?"

"No not really, oh wait, I almost forgot. Cheesecake please!" She smiled sweetly up at him, batting her eyelids. Booker laughed. She'd been craving random foodstuffs for several weeks now, and the latest in the chain was cheesecake. Sure it was a little expensive, but they'd make do. He wasn't totally bankrupt yet!

"Of course! How could I forget?" He grinned, nuzzling his face into her neck, planting several kisses along it.

"Mmmm, how could you? Go on! Before we'll all starve to death!"

Booker laughed as he pulled himself back to full height. He glanced back at her one last time before he left the house, in search of groceries and cheesecake.

**August 15th 1853 – 1020**

Booker was in a state of shell shock. He simply could not understand how quickly his life had ended.

Only yesterday, he'd been speaking to Mary. He'd just delivered her a rich cheesecake, and once suitably bribed by the gift she'd allowed him, albeit very grudgingly, to go out for a night with some friends he had who were also on leave. He'd met up with Vivian and Lean, the two who'd been with him since the beginning. They'd all had a great time, getting thoroughly pissed and throwing away a few dollars each on a poker table. He'd said his goodbyes, excused himself, and left for home, the only thought on his mind getting back into his warm cosy bed with his wife.

Except she wasn't in the apartment. He searched every room, but she was nowhere to be found. It was only when he checked the hallway again that he noticed the torn slip of paper on the floor, a hastily scribbled note. He couldn't recognise the handwriting but it said:

"MR DEWITT. MARY BROUGHT TO HOSPITAL. BABY EARLY!"

Even in his drunken state, Booker knew he had to get there and quickly. No man should miss his own child's birth, much less the first with a mother who had no experience in the job. Mary would be terrified. Booker ran outside, hailing the first cab he came across. Jumping up into the seat of the wagon, he all but threw a wad of dollar bills at the driver. "Eastview Hospital now. Twice the fare if you hurry it up!"

That was enough incentive for that man. The carriage took off at a breakneck speed, crashing through the still busy 3 am streets of New York. When they arrived, Booker just dropped the wad and sprinted from the carriage to the doors.

The receptionist looked a little shocked by the clearly intoxicated man who staggered through the doors at 3 in the morning. At first she figured him to be either injured from a brawl or there to cause trouble. When she'd finally been able to confirm his story about Mary, he'd been escorted up to a small room near the paediatric ward.

Mary was laid down on a plain and thoroughly uncomfortable looking hospital bed. Her face was pale and every few seconds she'd gasped or clutched at her swollen body in pain. Booker did his best to try and seem sober, but it was a wasted effort. She could clearly smell the alcohol on his breath anyway.

"Oh Christ I'm so sorry Mary. I should have been with you! I'm so sorry!" His words came out in a tumble, despite his attempts to appear calm. He had to try and be strong, for both of them, but this was too much. He'd never expected something like this to happen, and so early.

Somehow Mary had managed to keep calm though. She raised her arm and squeezed his hand gently. "Booker it's ok." Her words were too quiet, and she seemed too weak to speak louder "It's ok. You couldn't have expected this. I didn't either." She managed to curl her lips into a tiny smile "and hey, we're gonna be a proper family after this. Aren't we? "

Booker was worried. She seemed too weak. The baby was a month early. That couldn't bode well for it at all, though Booker wasn't a doctor. He didn't know the odds of it surviving. But he knew Mary, and if it didn't the emotional agony would devastate her.

Despite his fears, he put on a brave face for his wife. Smiling, he leaned down over her and planted a chaste kiss on the lips. "Yeah. Yeah we are."

Mary fell back into the pillow. "Good..." the tone seemed far too vulnerable in his ears. Her eyes closed and she fell asleep.

…

Booker had sent out of the room when the child finally arrived. He was sat on a chair outside, staring at the door. This was it. So much had happened to get him to this point. Maybe life didn't hold a grudge. Booker knew he didn't deserve a loving family, but he didn't believe life worked like that. If there was a God judging him, he was either looking at something else or maybe was just a sadistic SOB. The men who'd died that day certainly hadn't deserved what they got. Maybe it worked both ways?

The doctor who'd been overseeing the birth walked out through the door. Booker leaned to the side, desperate to see his wife before the door closed. He looked at the doctor in front of him. His entire life rode on what he said to him. The man was a little shorter but a lot older than him, face wrinkled by expressions of emotion displayed throughout his life. His face was completely unreadable, just as Bookers usually was. Booker was going to have to probe less subtly.

"How are they?"

Not taking his gaze of for even a moment, the older man shook his head.

_No..._

Booker's world crashed around him. He wouldn't believe it – couldn't believe it. It had to be a joke. There was no way...

He rushed up, pushing past the elderly man and into the room. "No way, there's no...not real, not happening...no no no no" The words came out as a mumble, a voice to his thoughts as he tried to convince himself that everything was fine. That _she_ was fine.

He stopped when he saw her. Laid there, on the sheets. They were stained red with her blood. "God, please no. Mary...I'm so sorry." This was his fault. He was the reason she'd been pregnant in the first place. Neither of them had been read for this. He was 16 then for God's sake, and already more scarred than most men twice his age. Not to mention the fact that he had no idea what a good Dad should be like, unless it involved lots of booze and cheap hookers.

At the moment he was still in shock, but later on he'd loathe himself more than he already did. Everything he'd closed off since that day 3 years ago. All the guilt he'd locked in the deepest pits of his mind, rushed back to the surface. And through it all he was only aware of one conscious thought.

_My fault..._

If he'd just kept control that night…if he'd juststayed away from the drinks…

Booker realised someone was missing from the tragedy. The reason it all would have been worth it. It could all _still_ be worth it.

"Where, where's the baby? I... have to see..."

The midwives and doctors exchanged nervous glances with one another. Eventually the one nearest him shock her head, the sorrow on her face clear for all to see.

Booker almost collapsed there and then. Not the child too.

"Sh...show me."

One more glance between them, before the woman led him over to a table with several sheets packed on it to act as a makeshift bed. And on those sheets was the tiny corpse of his child, barely larger than his hand. The blood had been washed from it before he'd come in. He gently picked the body up. It was a girl.

"Anna, Anna I'm so sorry."

He placed her back on the sheets and left, the tears flowing freely down his face. Out of sight of the horrid scene, he collapsed to his knees, body heaving with sorrow. Emotions were cycling through Bookers brain, sorrow, fear, self-loathing, guilt, rage, and to his eternal shame, the tiniest amounts of relief. There was a brick wall next to him, and with a roar Booker threw a wild punch at it, desperate to expel even a little of the raw anger he was experiencing. The bones in his fingers were fractured by the force, but at this point he didn't care about the pain. If anything, he felt relief as it removed him from the torment he was feeling, if only for a couple of seconds.

Booker looked off down the corridor he was in. For just a moment he swore he saw a brunette woman at the other end, in a blue dress and white corset, but he blinked, and she was gone

**August 29th 1893 – 2339**

2 weeks later

Booker returned to his apartment, dressed in a black suit. He'd just got back from their funeral, held at a small church she'd occasionally wandered through. He remembered she'd liked the flowers that grew there, and decided it was appropriate. He'd nearly spent everything he owned on the funeral and had given the rest to her friends and neighbours. After all, he wasn't going to need it. Not after tonight.

Booker hadn't really been living for the last two weeks. He'd just existed, waking up each morning without a plan for the day. He was supposed to have left for a tour with the military a few weeks after Mary gave birth, but he'd handed in his papers a few days ago. They'd tried to put up a fight, threatening legal action if he didn't finish his 6 month contract, but he'd just walked out there and then. He couldn't bring himself to carry on fighting. He lost interest in his health. The fractured wrist hadn't been set back yet, or even wrapped up. He hadn't showered or shaved since he'd come home.

So he didn't think of what he was about to do as a sin. It was just making his death official.

He reached onto his desk and pulled out the Colt. Say what he would about Comstock, the man had a good taste in guns. He hadn't been lying when he told Booker of its strength. By Bookers hands several men had met their end when just one of its powerful rounds smashed their bodies to the ground. Booker knew it would leave quite a big mess, but there was definitely no chance he'd survive.

_Might as well get it over with…_

He tapped the barrel of the loaded gun on his temple. He didn't have anything left for him here, but he wasn't going to kid himself. If God did exist, then no fucking way would he let Booker be with Mary and Anna up in heaven. No, Booker suspected he had a special seat reserved for him, and it was right next to the devil. It was about time he faced the judgement of the ones he'd failed over the years. The ones he'd killed. The one's he hadn't been able to save.

A fist connected to the back of his head. It a strong punch, but it was a surprisingly sneaky attack and sent him sprawling face first onto his desk. The gun was pulled from his hand while he was still stunned, but he recovered quickly enough to grab his assailant's wrist. If someone wanted him dead they could have just waited a second, but now they were in for a world of hurt. He heard his attacker gasp, and it almost stopped him in his tracks. Normally Booker held himself to a strict set of morals, like most gentlemen at the time, and top on the list was 'don't hurt a woman unless you've got a damn good reason'. Well... she'd certainly given him that, and at this point he could care less about morals. He was going to hell one way or another; one more sin wouldn't change that.

With the gun stuck in her hand, he pulled the woman towards him, flipping her over his shoulder and throwing her over the desk. Somehow though, she managed to not only turn her fall into a roll at the last minute, but also kept hold of the bulky pistol as well, coming out of the roll with it drawn and aimed right at his chest. All this while wearing a fucking _corset!_

The girl was trained, and pretty well at that. Oh well, he supposed if he was gonna die, might as well be shot by a woman. And one several years older than him, if he was correct. Oh the laughs this would cause back in the army if the guys found out.

For the first time since the fight began, Booker rose from his desk. Why hadn't she shot him yet? She clearly knew how to use that gun, and he couldn't defend himself if she tried anything. A thought struck him. Maybe she didn't want him dead. After all she'd clearly been here for a while, and any half decent hit-man (or girl in this case) would have found the gun before he got back. In fact, they'd probably have waited till he sat down and shot him in the temple with it, and left the scene looking like a suicide. Or at least that's what he would've done. But she'd decided to wait until he armed himself, and then only tried to disarm him when he'd pointed it at his own head. Maybe she was just trying to 'save' him. Her expert removal of the bullets from the cylinder was pretty strong evidence of that.

"You're pretty good with that. What do you want?" The words were more of a growl. He was trying to die here!

The woman laughed, though there was no amusement to it. It was only now he realised it was the same woman who he'd seen at the hospital, and at several points: His wedding to Mary. The night she said she was pregnant. When he'd been promoted. And also darker moments, like when before several of his more violent operations. Wounded Knee came to mind.

_Wait... That's when I first saw her. At Comstock's Baptism_.

Whoever this woman was, she'd been following him for three years, and apparently hadn't changed at all, to her very clothes, in that time. This was becoming weirder by the second.

"Well that would make sense, Mr Dewitt, seeing as you taught me." She looked up slightly as if in thought before she continued "Well, one of you did. As for what I want. I want you to put this gun down and come to your senses. I know it seems like you've got nothing left to live for. I know what you're going through. Something… similar happened to me. But please just put the gun down and carry on. It'll get better again. I swear. Just give it a few days and you'll see."

Booker doubted that. He was also pretty incredulous when she said she knew what he was experiencing. But now he was curious, and something about the odd woman was making his head hurt, like she was familiar, but he didn't know from where.

"How? How can you possibly know that? And what do you mean one of me?" The girl was definitely strange

"My father. He's the answer to both of those questions." She was beginning to look frantic, turning to stare at the door of the apartment. "Just go to Columbia ok. You'll see I'm right. I have to go! They're looking for me! Can I trust you not to just shoot yourself as soon as I leave." Booker just nodded dumbly. Someone was banging on the door outside.

"_BRING US THE GIRL, AND WIPE AWAY THE DEBT!" _The voice sent a wave of nausea through Booker.

He'd heard those words before. He knew he had! But he just couldn't remember from where. Images of a floating city, and a dingy office flickered in his mind, but he'd never seen either of those two things. And imagining a city in the clouds. That was just crazy wasn't it? An image of a desk covered in overdue race tickets. How did he know they were though? He'd never even had the money to gamble in his life!

The woman remembered the words, and their meaning, perfectly though. They'd haunted Booker throughout countless universes. Two simple phrases, which more or less defined the man in front of her. Booker wouldn't be Booker without hearing them, or at least not _her _Booker anyway. When she'd been sold to the Comstock they'd fight so hard against in the future, it was those words which had tipped his decision. It was the same words which convinced him to get her back...

For the Lutece's, it was the leash they put around Bookers neck, chaining him to their wills. He'd do anything to wipe his debts clean. But that didn't mean Booker would like it.

"No, no I don't want to..." He was staring wide-eyed at the door. Blood was dribbling down from his nose.

"_WE HAD A DEAL DEWITT. OPEN THIS DOOR, RIGHT NOW!"_

Booker looked to the woman next to him, fully intending to do whatever it took to find out what the hell was happening, but she was gone. As soon as he realised this, the nausea all but lifted entirely. The knocking was gone too.

"What the hell..."

There was no way she'd gotten out of the apartment without him noticing. He'd been watching the door the whole time, and all the opening windows to the outside were too small to fit through, even for a petite young woman like her. That left two options. Either she was still hiding somewhere inside, or she'd never been here in the first place. A thorough search of the place removed he first option from the equation.

_How the hell did she..._

Someone knocked on the door. It wasn't nearly as loud as it had been a few seconds ago, but not expecting it Booker started, hitting his head on the doorway between the hall and the bedroom.

"Just a second." The call was half hearted. The events of the last few minutes had been surprisingly draining, and left him more than a little confused.

As he walked to the door, Booker thought about what had happened tonight already. He'd been a second away from ending it all. He'd been fully committed to pulling the trigger, and then some woman had managed to break into his apartment and wrestle the gun of him. She'd somehow convinced him to then _not_ kill himself, at least until he visited Columbia, whatever that was. He doubted she was talking about the country. Or Washington for that matter... Booker was still trying to work out what the hell had happened after that though.

He opened the door of his apartment, and stood face to face with honestly the last person he'd expected to meet, though he guessed he probably should have. Even if he wasn't his CO any more, Captain Slate had always been checking on him since the events at Wounded Knee, and he would have been pretty upset if Booker resigned. Upset enough to visit him at his own home.

"Captain." Booker kept the greeting neutral. Slate was probably pissed off with him already, and while Booker couldn't care less about most people's opinions of him, Slate had been the closest thing he'd had to a father since those days. The ex-sergeant may have been suicidal, but he didn't want to be in any more trouble than he had to be with the few he still counted on as friends.

"Booker..." Slate was also keeping his tone neutral. Somehow that was scarier than him yelling. The captain wasn't known for holding back, and if he was now something more important than Bookers resignation was going on. And Booker was right in the middle of it.

He decided to cut to the meat of the matter "So what do you want me for?" There was no beating round the bush with Slate; he didn't care for it. When dealing with Slate, Booker had learned quickly that the best way to keep things civil was to speak directly and avoid any pointless on-the-top bull, no matter how blunt or rude it came out as. Men of action like the captain only used words to command comrades or shout insults at the enemy. Conversation was a superfluous waste of air.

"You're wanted for a special assignment to a project Congress has been working on for some time now. It's almost complete now, all we need are competent security crews, people we can trust. Now seeing as I'm head of security the people selected are chosen at my discretion, and put simply, I want you there. I know you resigned from the military Booker, and I'm very disappointed about it. But this could be a chance to get some use out of your... period of unemployment."

"Slate you know what's happened. I barely bring myself out of bed each day now. What use would I be in a security job?"

Slate took a step back and ran his cold gaze over Booker once more. Booker knew the man was inspecting every detail of him, comparing them to his ideas of the perfect man for the job, a true soldier. Booker already knew he'd be found wanting.

"You're right boy. I have no use for you. Not as you are anyway. Booker, do you remember Wounded Knee? You might have been in that coma still when this happened, but when you got back, you were the talk of the entire camp. 'The Shepherd of Wounded Knee' they called you, probably because you led those civilians so well. Infiltrated a fully staffed enemy stronghold, and you weren't caught until the cavalry came over the horizon and alerted the lot of 'em. That's what we need now, more than a soldier, much as I hate to say it. We need someone with leadership talent, who can plan the best route through hell, and then convince the men to follow it without question. You've proved to me you have that talent!"

"I'll need details before I sign on to the job Slate." Booker was growing more than a little frustrated now. He just wanted to be left alone to his grief, he'd expressly told them. And now they were trying to get him caught up in another of their missions, barely a week later!

"As I just officially said Dewitt, it's mostly classified. But there's been more than a few tongues wagging around the country. So what I'm telling you here is the unofficial shit that the world already knows. The project's headed by one Zachary Hale Comstock; yep the same guy you rescued 3 years ago."

Booker had read the stories of Comstock's involvements in secret government projects, but hadn't connected them to the job in front of him. "Small world after all I guess... so any hints as to what it is? Last 'project' I heard he was attached to involved mind-control, if you believe the man in New York Times!" That got a chuckle out of Slate. A rare event at best.

"Not quite Booker, but no less ambitious I'll tell you that. No, this projects more a 'raise the flag kinda thing. Look, I'll tell you straight, they've built a flying city. Makes blimps look like damn toys in comparison, and it moves twice as fast." Slate noticed the incredulous look on Booker's face. "Booker, I'm serious. This city exists and it needs a police force. A standing military attachment and I need men I trust. I'm not pulling your leg here!"

The younger man was doing his best to suppress his laughter. Okay so he'd been angry before, but this was brilliant. He'd actually thought Slate had a genuine job for him to do, but this was too much. No, turned out the man had finally gone crazy. It'd be sad if he wasn't acting so damn funny.

One snort just got past his defences, causing Slates face to scrunch up in indignation. Booker was genuinely sorry for hurting the man's feelings, but it was inevitable really, wasn't it? "Okay Slate I'll humour you. So what's this city called then?"

"Columbia, Booker, it's called Columbia."

Booker's face went white, the blood rushing off to the safety of his inner organs. _The girl, she just said...just a second ago...he's got to be joking. He has to be!_

"What... What did you say?"

"Columbia Booker," Slate was now looking at Booker quizzically, wondering what could have caused such a sudden shift in the man. The answer clearly wasn't what Booker wanted to hear, judging by his face._ Damn it... he isn't..._ The shock wore off Booker's face, replaced by a grimace of steely determination. This couldn't be a coincidence. The girl had said that exact name minutes ago. And now whatever was going on, Booker was going to find out. The only way to do that then was to go to this 'Columbia'"

"I'll take the job. Where is this city?"

Booker's strange reaction may have taken Slate by surprise, but he'd gotten what he'd come for. Now he just had to get Booker up there. "Chicago. It'll be revealed at the world fair. I've still got a few things to do here in New York, so I'll pick you up a couple of days before and we'll take the train there."

**September 5th 1893 – 0850**

Booker awoke with a start as the train pulled into Union Depot aka Union Station, just west of the river. On the train with him were almost 100 other men and women, hired by the government to ensure the security of the fledgling city in the sky. Most of the men were career military, either recently laid off in the absence of a real war to fight, or some of the lucky few who'd kept their jobs and were assigned by the government. A fair number also belonged to various police forces nation-wide, and there were even a couple of fed's along for the ride.

Booker knew for a fact that there were at least 40 trains all coming with similar numbers, which added up to about 4000 men with at least some experience in combat, be it on the battlefield or on the streets. The number crunching was startling to say the least. Even in the most enforced cities, there were only about 100 police to every 100000 civilians. They wouldn't hire so many men for anything smaller than a fully populated capital.

And this was before the civilians on Columbia were even recruited onto the police, or their families decided to join them. The place must be absolutely huge!

He was in a much better condition than he'd been the night Slate found him. His fractured arm had been healed as well as could be and was currently splinted and in a sling. His face was clean shaven and hair cut short in a military cut. He also seemed to have lost a lot of the added weight that came with civilian life, replacing it with lean muscle.

There was heavy cloud cover that day, so they couldn't see the city from the ground. They did see a fleet of airships and barges above the city though, apparently ferrying goods and people up to a dock, hidden in the clouds, before returning with visibly empty holds. The airships alone were a huge spectacle, drawing gasps of astonishment from several of the younger ones.

They assembled outside the station and were divided into groups of around ten or so over the course of the next hour. Each group was taken one at a time down to the harbour and the others would wait before the guides would return, minus the men and women who had followed. Finally it was Booker's groups turn. He'd been placed with several of the men and women who would come to serve as officers in the policing or military attachments to the city. It turned out a recommendation from Slate was enough to convince them he deserved it.

As Booker walked along the river he saw more evidence of the city. A glimpse of a propeller of some kind. A blue blast rushing through the cloud cover for just a second before once again being hidden behind the vapour. Eventually they made it to the lighthouse at the edge of the breakwater. Finished only a couple of weeks ago, and built for the multipurpose task of alerting ships, and acting as a dock for the new city above it.

Booker heard a faint whispering, and turned to see who was talking. No one was, though Booker could have sworn he saw a flash of blue before his eyes focused on the image. The man behind him just stared at him like he was odd, so he turned back to the lighthouse. The whispering was difficult to hear, but he made out a few clear phrases.

"_Constants and variables... always a man... always a city... it always starts with a lighthouse..._"

Booker tried to shake the words from his head. He didn't want to go crazy as soon as he'd got to the place. Not before he found answers. They made it to the door of the lighthouse. They were about to enter it when one of the guides picked up and envelope that had been left at the map. "Strange, we didn't leave this here" He paused for a second as he examined the paper "We got a Booker Dewitt anywhere here?"

_Course it'd be for me..._

"Yeah that's me." He held out his palm for the note, which the assembled troops generously passed along to him. He tore open the seal of the packaging and slipped out the paper inside. It was a note written to him. In superfluous but admittedly pretty handwriting it said:

**Booker**

**This is the last time you'll see me, at least for a long time. It's just too dangerous to stay while they're here as well, for both of us.**

**There isn't much left I can do to help you. All I can do is tell you this. Find the girl. She's more important than you know.**

**Love**, **Anna**

That girl was definitely odd. Still it didn't change anything. He'd go to Columbia, find this girl, and get his answers. Then...Then he'd do what he tried to that night. One last job before he ended it.

Attached to the note was a poorly developed picture of a young girl, around 14 years old if he had to guess, though it wasn't too clear. Scrunching up the note and pocketing both it and the picture before the others could see, he followed them into the lighthouse. Three flights of stairs later and the whole group was assembled at the top of the lighthouse. One of the guides walked around the bulb, and pulled a sequence of bells, lighting the bulb ontop of the glass chamber they surrounded. Inside the chamber, the assembled men watched a technological marvel as the floor opened up and out rose a collection of chairs, one per person, joined by welds in the backs. Booker was less concerned by the technology than by the shackles on each arm.

"Now we need you guys up there quickly before the masses get in, so while they're all held at the docks in them fancy blimps you'll be on the fast lane. We'll have guides waiting for you at the top who'll take things from there. Now try not to puke in the pod, ok!" The guides all left down the ladder, leaving the men looking at one another. It was clear no one wanted to be first on the rocket. Booker hadn't survived the military or living on the streets by volunteering for suicide jobs. _Fuck this. If I survive great, but I'm not gonna be first to find out just how safe those engines are._ Eventually one of the older guys sat on. Motivated, the others began to file in, picking seats at random. There was no joking or talk. Everyone was still too worried about being launched into the clouds.

Finally the last man sat down. The shackles locked, keeping everyone in their seats. A few tried to struggle and more than one screamed for help, but even if someone had heard they couldn't do anything now. Several steel wall ensnared the men, locking them in with a pressurised hiss as the pod was sealed against the outside.

Then with zero warning, the floor tipped forward, briefly giving Bookers half of the group a better view of just how big and unstable those engines looked. The picture fluttered out of his pockets, drifting into the inferno brewing below them.

"Damnit!" But there was nothing he could do as he watched his last hope of finding answers disintegrate in a cloud of ash.

At last the pod tipped back. An automated female voice spoke out " Ascension. Ascension in the count of 5. Count of 4, 3, 2, 1."

The engines fully ignited, powering the shuttle out through the top of the lighthouse and into the sky.

"Ascension, Ascension."

The forces were huge, and several men's heads began to roll as the blood was forced to their feet, leaving them unconscious in their seats.

"5000 feet,"

Through the perspex window in front of his face, Booker watched as the pod shot into the clouds, and his view to the outside became solid grey, with wisps of white and blue bursting through for split seconds before falling below them.

"10000 feet, 15000 feet" Still the grey refused to leave his view, and for a second he got a glimpse of his own reflection.

Suddenly there was blinding sunshine, as the pod raced out of the cloud line and over what could only be described as _heaven._

"Hallelujah"

Columbia was arrayed before them, a shining beacon in the sky, revealing itself to its new guards and tenders. And it revealed a lot. As far as the eye could see, floating islands, propelled by balloons, engines or propellers, held aloft great buildings, all built with the aesthetic and function in mind. There was no trace of ugliness even as they approached, and a network of intricate rails came into view, glistening in the sun as they reflected the light, reminding Booker of a spiders web. A towering suspender bridge crossed the gap between two larger islands, and just on the horizon, one could make out the outline of a giant angel.

Then the view was cut off as they began to descend into their final destination.

**A.N: Jesus i'm such a tease. Seriously, revealing Columbia after FOREVER and then just...cutting off. Scandelous...**

**Thanks for reading. Now i'm updating at 12 at night so will probs update this in the morning because atm I feel like i've done a really bad job but am too tired to change it now. Thanks for your support guys, and please remember that every fave or follow motivates me to do more, and reviews tell me exactly how.**

**See you in the next chapter!**


	7. Filler - Orientation aka Getting Armed

**A.N: Guys you are just too good to me! Story has just reached over 1000 hits. That's over 500 occasions where someone read the summary and thought 'Yeah i'll give this a try.'...or better yet came back again to read updates!**

**I have good news or bad news depending on who's reading. After a lot of thought, I've decided I'm going to focus more on Bookers interactions with the Columbian Security Forces (C.S.F for short) than on the Booker/Liz romance. That isn't to say it won't be there but don't expect it for a long time and don't expect loads of gratuitous sex etc. I may be persuaded otherwise but atm that's where this stories going, so if that's all you were looking for you'll probably have to go elsewhere.**

**Sorry for the late update, but first couple of weeks back for GCSE's are not to be taken lightly.**

**Early part of chapter is basically entrance to Columbia from game, just with 20 guys and every character being around 20 yrs younger than they appeared in the 'main' verse. Later part I've probably messed up lol, but give it a try anyways.**

**CH7 – Orientation aka Getting Armed **

**September 5****th ****1893 – 1200hrs **

Booker and the other officers emerged from the pod, lightheaded but otherwise physically fine. The shuttle they'd used to travel from the surface had made a series of last minute adjustments via thrusters to perfectly align with a small chute in one of Columbia's grander structures. The sunlight passing through huge glass windows had illuminated a series of messages cut into the supports as they'd drifted down. Then there'd been the stained glass image of a man, surrounded by awestruck onlookers, pointing towards a city in the clouds. The image evidently was of the man leading people towards Columbia or this 'New Eden' if the messages on the way down were to be believed.

Now outside the pod, they found themselves in a large open room, mostly submerged under a thin layer of water, which was gently flowing towards the stairs down and further into the city. The building seemed to rely exclusively on candles and sunlight to provide light; a wise choice given its aquatic nature, which Booker figured would wreak havoc on any electrical systems emplaced.

Unfortunately the guides they'd been told would be meeting them evidently hadn't shown up, so the group decided by majority to move forward into the building. Seeing as there was only one path they couldn't really become lost. As they wandered further down and into the structure, Booker caught glimpses of several offshoots, leading in dead ends but evidently used as some sorts of shrines. He didn't have time to split from the group to examine them, so he was none the wiser as to what they were for, though he saw one had several toys left in offering and mentioned something about a 'lamb'.

They passed by a couple of men in robes on the way down, but beyond cryptic responses as to their location, received no help from them and were forced to continue onwards. Eventually they found themselves in a great hall, bigger than any room Booker had yet seen. It was also clear that several other streams besides their own fed into this room, leaving a pool a couple of feet deep at the far end. A number of men and women were crowding around said pool, blocking a man in the center from view. As they approached though, the man's words rose above the trickle of the water at their feet.

"On this day of days, we come before our lord, to be washed clean of vice and sin. And on every year, we shall recommit ourselves through sacrifice, and the giving of thanks, and by submerging ourselves in the sweet waters of baptism." Bookers breath hitched in his throat as he heard the voice. Here speaking was a man he'd never expected to see again in his life. If Witting was here, things could get a lot more complicated fast. Booker hadn't spoken to the priest since his hasty escape from baptism three years ago, and had no idea how the older man had taken his decision.

"And lo, for if the Prophet had suffered the loss of his beloved, and not struck down our enemies at Wounded Knee, it would have been enough. If the prophet had struck down our enemies at Wounded Knee, and not called upon our union to build the New Eden, it would have been enough!" Witting's voice carried easily over the echoing hall. Booker was getting more confused by the minute. Who was this 'Prophet' Witting was speaking about? As far as Booker had been aware Slate had been the man to order the attack on the Lakota Ghost Dancers, but he'd expressly told Booker he was here as the security commander. Besides, Slate certainly wasn't the type to start predicting the future unless he had his own hand in it.

No this prophet certainly couldn't have been at Wounded Knee. Not in any major role anyway... And Witting had been there by his side. Why was he going along with it?

Witting was shouting now, eyes darting around the other group like a rabbits. Booker had seen them on many others, be they Ghost Dancer, Christian, Atheist or any other. The zealous ones always had the same look in their eyes -the eyes of a fanatic.

"IF THE PROPHET HAD CALLED UPON OUR UNION TO BUILD THE NEW EDEN, BUT NOT CLOSED IT OFF FROM THE DEMONS OF SODOM, IT... WOULD HAVE BEEN... ENOUGH!"

Booker glanced at the men around him again. A few, including himself, broke the trend, but he noted that many wore a form of the cross somewhere on their person. Most wore it on a chain on their neck, but a few had it stitched onto their clothes or even tattooed.

_Guess they'll fit right in._

Booker may have believed in God, but he certainly wasn't on good terms with him. Several members of the other group noticed their approach, and parted to form a gap. Bookers own group walked into the semi-circle of men and women, the water lapping at their feet as it flowed on into the city proper, past the black robed and likely delusional priest. Booker hid himself away from Witting behind a couple of the taller men at the back.

"Ahh, more pilgrims, here to defend our city from the demons below! Come, come. Many of your fellows have already joined us in the light. Who will be cleansed first?"

Several of the less faithful men started murmuring. This wasn't part of the job description. They'd been told to go up to the city, enforce the law, then pick up their cash at the end of the day. Religion wasn't supposed to come into it. Booker kept silent, hoping he'd be able to just sneak on by. But with one entrance to the city and the man he was avoiding right in front of it he was doubtful he'd pull it off. One of the cross bearers spoke up.

"Some of us have already been cleansed. Are we free to pass?"

Behind the men, the corners of Bookers lips twitched upwards. If he was lucky, Witting would say yes and he could just walk on by."

"I'm sorry my son, but not all are as honest as you. Letting anyone past without first cleansing them is to lead sin into the Eden. Besides, you'll find Columbia holds only the purest of souls, and surely yours would be spotless before coming to the doorstep of the Lord."

Booker cursed inside. The speaker accepted this answer with a gracious nod. It made sense if you believed. One by one, the security workers filed on through, each being submerged for surely an unholy amount of time before being pulled back to the surface. More than one were unconscious when they were brought back.

He put it off for as long as he could, but eventually Booker was the last man to be washed. Witting looked up from the last man, aka victim, and watched Booker. Something was obviously confusing him, but eventually his face formed a smile as he realised who the man approaching was. "Ahh the Shepherd of Wounded Knee." Several members of the other group gasped in awe, some even dropping to their knees in prayer. "It's been too long Booker. "

_Shit. Guess it's too much to hope the guy wouldn't recognise me._

"Brothers and sisters, the saviour of our Prophet and the Lamb walks amongst us!" To the assembled crowd, and with every ounce of energy his past as a public speaker provided him, Witting announced "Booker Dewitt! An agent of the Lord and the Prophet!".

Almost in unison, the rest of the congregation all dropped to their knees, heads bent and hands together in prayer. A couple of the security officers who'd waited in the tunnel for the rest to come through were looking on in confusion, wondering what was so special about the last man to pass. Booker himself was only slightly more enlightened.

"Comstock..." he breathed the name out. Only two people had been spared from that camp, and he'd been the one to bust out both of them. Booker had never seen Comstock as the religious type, but it made sense. He was the man who'd convinced congress to fund the project after all. But how could a simple baptism completely change a man's faith? And why was Witting going along with it too? He'd been there at Wounded Knee, so why did he believe any of it? He wouldn't call him a prophet without pretty damn solid evidence, that was for sure.

_Heh, maybe Comstock really can read the future...more likely Witting just went senile a bit early. Well, might as well get this over with._

"All right, go ahead."

"Of course" Witting put his arm around Bookers shoulders. "I baptise you, in the name of our founders, in the name of our lord..." He said some more, but Booker didn't hear the words as his head was violently submerged in the pool. Witting had lost none of his strength since that day, and held the shepherd down even when the struggling began. Booker had been held under for almost a minute, and was beginning to panic. Witting was obviously crazy, and letting him be baptised by the guy was just plain stupid. But it was too late now. Another twenty seconds later, and Booker was finally pulled out of the water, lungs burning and mouth gaping in the thin air.

"I don't know brothers and sisters, but this one doesn't look clean to me..."

Before anyone had a chance to react, the crazy priest dragged Booker back beneath the waterline. This time Booker was sure he'd drown. He started to punch out, scoring at least a few hits on the older man, but for all he knew his attacks had done nothing. Wittings grip on his shoulders certainly didn't weaken in the slightest. Before the last reserves of air were finally used up, Booker mustered just enough to scream.

**September 5****th**** 1893 - 1420**

Booker awoke to a grey ceiling in a bare room. He was groggy from the near-drowning he'd had for a baptism, so it was with some difficulty that he pulled himself out of the bed he was lying on. Looking around, he saw a plain wooden desk, the bed he'd been unconscious on, a chest of drawers and not much else. Drab grey tile floor, and light was provided by a cheap electric bulb hanging from the ceiling as well as from a window towards the back of the room.

The window revealed a stunning view of the Columbian Skyline, but ultimately nothing of any interest to him. There were two doors out of the room, one leading to a small bathroom and the other outside into a long corridor. On the second door was a clearly mass-produced note.

**To whom it may concern.**

**The accommodations and all furnishings within are entitled to yourself for the duration of your employment to Columbian Security forces. Additional furnishings may be ordered at reduced cost from the Compound store, or from your nearest Fink Industry Auto-Furnisher. **

**There will be an orientation session at 3o'clock on the 5****th**** September for all new security members, outlining the powers and responsibilities provided to you. Your CO will be responsible for acquiring any weapons, tools or work related supplies required, though every patrolman will be issued a single BROADSIDER Personal Defence Weapon as well as a single steel truncheon. Ranking officers and specialists will also be provided with a single Lutece Model 12 Personal Radio.**

**Welcome to the C.S.F.**

**Zachary Hale Comstock**

Booker quickly rifled through the drawers and the desk cupboards, locating the automatic and bat. His own Colt Hand Cannon possessed superior stopping power, range and accuracy to the smaller gun, but the high rate of fire and large, easy-to-replace magazines of the Broadsider would definitely come in handy. Especially when he didn't want the target dead in the first shot; this wasn't the army anymore. The bat he had less use for, seeing as Booker preferred his taking enemies on from the next island along if possible, but he figured better safe than sorry. He was in a city after all. Just cause it flew didn't mean it couldn't get cramped in a brawl.

On top of the drawers was also a large metal sheeted block, which he correctly assumed to be the radio. It weighed a tonne and was about 2ft by a 1ft in size. A long flimsy stick of metal stuck out of what Booker assumed to be the top of the device, and several dials and what appeared to be a speaker stuck out of the back. Not understanding its use or an easy inconspicuous way to carry it, Booker hefted it back on top of the drawers where he found it.

The drawers also contained a couple of immaculately pressed uniform. One was all sky blue, and boasting several different symbols of the USA and the nationalism he was supposed to embody. Changing out of his casual clothes, still damp from the dunk in the pool earlier, he donned the kit. Another set inside the drawers was similar, but instead of a dress uniform it instead was made up mostly of tough leather pads stitched onto the same blue cloth, obviously in an attempt to both make the wearer more intimidating as much as to protect them from blows.

It took Booker a while to navigate through what he guessed must be was the Living Bloc of The Compound, the HQ for higher tier security work in the city. He'd been given a brief description before arriving at Columbia, so he knew that there was supposed to be a Briefing Room nearby, where he could hopefully meet up with whoever was in charge and get some orders.

It took a while, but eventually Booker found his way to the briefing room. Several C.S.O's (Columbian Security Officers) in similar attire to his own were also milling around. As he walked past, their Lieutenant caught a glimpse of the two silver bars on his uniform, and yelled "OFFICER, ON DECK!" in a voice that reminded Booker an awful lot of boot camp. The effect on the men was immediate and in perfect synchronisation they all jumped from whatever they'd been doing before snapping off a crisp salute. Being a friend of the SC (Security commander) had its perks.

"At ease people, I'm not that kind of officer." As the grunts turned back to whatever they'd been doing Booker approached the LT.

"Captain? Need anything?"

"Yeah, I need to know where the orientation's taking place. I'm a little lost here."

The young officer gave Booker a sympathetic smile. "Yes sir, it's a lot to take in. Umm…okay so you're gonna want to take the hall on our left here" he pointed at the doorway leading to another corridor "then take a left at the second junction. Keep following that and you'll end up at the courtyard where the declarations and stuff happen. Tell you what; me and my guys are just about to head that way ourselves, so you might as well follow us. Leave now and you'll arrive early anyway."

Booker nodded his head in thanks. "Sounds good. What's your name Lieutenant?"

"Jason Ford, 2nd Military Support Group." The LT allowed a hint of pride to enter his voice. "We're the guys who get all the nice 'specialist' roles cops can't handle on their own."

"Such as…?" Booker raised an eyebrow.

"Riot troops, snipers, pilots, Airship combat, boarding troops et cetra et cetra. Take me for example. I'm primarily a combat life saver aka field medic, but I'm also a qualified engineer and can pilot any air vehicle you throw at me, at least in theory." He paused to take a breath and to shrug, his hands giving a clear 'what can you do?' message for the world to see. "Obviously most of us shipped in during the last few days, so until command starts doing its bloody job properly we have no idea how well it'll all work."

Booker and Jason continued to talk about varying matters in the new city. While neither men had been at Columbia for more than a week, the LT had already learned a great deal about most of the 'important' things, such as where the nearest drink could be found, and which superiors to stay the hell away from at all costs. Jason struck Booker as the type everyone in the fox-hole wanted to be next to. He certainly wasn't the kind of LT who'd threaten his men with court-marshal. Despite his own generally poor mood, Booker couldn't help but like the man. To be honest Booker was surprised Jason was an LT at all. Either he was incredibly good at his job or had friends in high places.

_Not likely. They'd sooner execute him than risk him breaking their fancy teapots…_

"Hey, Dewitt, we should get moving. Orientation starts in five, and I've gotta get my men to the armoury."

The men set of at a brisk pace, quickly reaching the junction before moving on down the left corridor. Like the rest of the building, there were no visible efforts to spice any of the plain and simple halls up. The entire building, with the exception of personal quarters, was entirely built for function, and nothing else. The new-paint smell was still fresh in the air.

Eventually they made their way out into a large densely packed courtyard. Booker guessed around two hundred new officers were sharing the space as they waited for the session to start. Booker felt a light tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Jason and his men spread out in front of him.

"Sir, we have orders to pick up some gear from the armoury now, so we have to leave you here, ok?"

"Yeah sure" Booker waved his hand in dismissal "go on ahead. Don't need permission from me."

Nodding, Jason turned back to his squad, and they began the walk through the crowd to a back alley on the other side of the yard. Booker watched them take the first few steps but turned back to the crowded area before they had left. At the front of the yard was a large wooden stage, obviously where speakers would go to dictate orders or control meetings such as this one. He'd been idle for less than a minute before the first of these men strode onto it.

Despite the distortion the height of the stage gave him it was clear the man was tall. Booker guessed he must be around 7ft, but the boots may have added an inch or two as well. Booker also picked up, mostly subconsciously, a series of tells about the man. He was clearly used to and comfortable in a position of command, striding to the front with no signs of apprehension or hesitation. He'd also obviously been in fairly vicious combat, if the facial scarring and damaged left ear were anything to go by. So it was likely that the man was a seasoned veteran, most likely of the American-Indian wars. When the vet reached the stage, he took out a truncheon and rapped it on the metal frame of the stage.

"Alright simmer down!" he spoke with a booming voice. It didn't seem forced, just the way he typically spoke, requesting or more accurately demanding respect from the rest of the world. The assembled men and women, startled by the voice and fierce clanging of metal on metal, shut up and turned to face him sharpish.

"Alright, now if everyone's here, we'll get started. I'm sure you already know all the basics, but we've got to cover 'em anyways. My name is Conrad Garcia, Major, and I'm in charge of this little pep talk. Each of you has been handpicked by the US government, for one reason or another, to protect and serve all citizens and visitors of this city. Most of you will be covering various patrols on a two week rota, which will have already been determined by the brass, while the rest of you… yadayadayada find your CO's and they'll sort you out" There was some subdued laughter at that. Even Booker managed a smile. None of them had come to Columbia to be mollycoddled after all, and a bunch of vets probably didn't need to hear half the BS that the guys at the top had cooked up.

Another senior officer, a Lieutenant Colonel by the shoulder tag, walked onto the stage. He was slighter than the major was but no less intimidating. With a clear but more controlled voice he took over the speech "We'll be sorting you into your squads, units etc now. When you hear your name on the list, come up to the side of the stage here and join the group that's being formed. When your teams all there, you'll move off down the armoury and get equipped, and from there, just do whatever the guy in charge says."

Booker was genuinely surprised by the lack of formality. Back just a year ago, he and the guys had joked about how dear-to-protocol the upper echelons of the military were. He remembered Manley once commenting about a particularly big-headed Captain. They'd just been attacked by a particularly vicious group of native rebels, and the older officer had called for an all-round defence. Not usually a bad move, but when it was 10 men against 30 with superior elevation it just meant they'd either get swamped or end up in a last stand. It was only because Manley had blown up a bunch of them with a couple of grenade that the natives cleared off long enough for support to arrive, but that didn't matter to the captain. Manley had been almost faced Court-Martial for 'insubordination and irresponsible use of explosive ordinance'. As he said afterwards "It was nearly bloody Custer all over again, but I get this shit on my record for saving there asses! Wonder if they considered where those grenades would be now if I _hadn't_ thrown 'em at the bastards?"

It took a while, but eventually the Lieutenant Colonel yelled Bookers name. The remaining crowd parted letting him pass by and access the stage. Ahead of him, around 10 or so men stood around some crates. The most senior, another major, approached.

"Captain Dewitt? Okay, names Charles Bradford. I'm in charge of the company you lot are all in. You, Kevin here, and about 6 others will be manning sniper posts for most of this rota, but seeing as we've got the day off until the public's let in we'll handle job allocation tomorrow morning. Go off, get you're bearings, hell visit another part of the city if you're up for it. Just be back here by 2200hrs and don't break anything while you're gone. I'm giving you access to the armoury, so if you want to get yourselves kitted up nows probably a good time to do so." He handed Booker and a Lieutenant two small metal keys. "Be back here at 0600 tomorrow sharpish. Dismissed!"

A few of the men nodded and left the courtyard alone, presumably to meet with friends or return to their rooms. Booker and the rest decided that they would be best served getting their equipment sorted out before moving onto less pressing matters. The armoury was only a short distance away from the yard, so it only took a few minutes and several questions to find.

From the outside, the armoury building looked like a giant painted steel box. Like most of the buildings in the Compound, it was primarily coloured blue, white and grey, but also employed several support columns, which the creators had apparently decide were unworthy of any decoration. Walking up to the door, Booker noticed that there were two separate keyholes on either side. Picking one at random, he inserted the key he'd been handed into the hole and twisted. The mechanism clinked and yielded to the pressure, but the door into the armoury remained locked. By now the LT had caught up and was also testing his own key, achieving the same result. The men stepped back to analyse the problem. The keys definitely fitted the locks, and the doors didn't look jammed, so there was another problem.

On a hunch, Booker told the Lieutenant to wait for his command to turn the key. When the two men were ready, Booker started a countdown " …3, 2, 1, now!" This time, when the keys turned the door swung open on its hinges, almost smashing Booker into the hardened walls of the structure.

It was almost immediately clear why the doors had such extensive security. Lined up on various racks were all manners of firearm and close range melee tools. Most og which were beyond Bookers comprehension. Several other guardsmen who'd arrived earlier were browsing through the tools of death in the room with them. Booker's group marched up to the man partially hidden behind a desk stacked to the roof with papers.

"Hey fella. We need to get ourselves equipped here ok?" Booker asked.

"Yeah sure go on ahead." The man didn't bother looking up from his work. "Just take a maximum of two firearms each and be sure to sign each weapon out before you leave. We keep track of who's picked up guns so don't think you can sell 'em or some stupid thing like that."

The group dispersed into the armoury, Booker following the LT who'd had the other key, and the man the major had called Kevin. After getting their bearings, the headed off to the precision weapons section. Rows upon rows of bolt action rifles were stacked in front of them, alongside scopes, empty magazines and clips, maintenance kits and even bayonets. There were also a series of smaller rifles which had slightly larger magazines from the look of them, though they appeared to be designed for mid-long range engagements, whist their stocks was still made almost entirely of solid and strengthened polished wood, much like their simpler looking cousins. Unlike the bolt actions though, these seemed to feature many more mechanical parts, designed to move automatically, creating a lethal semi-automatic carbine.

Booker looked down at the descriptive plaque, reading out loud. "V1 Huntsman Carbine's, designed for long range engagements with multiple soft targets. High stopping power, accuracy and flexible rate of fire impaired by high recoil and difficulty to manoeuvre well inherent with all known rifles." The last sentence was pretty much sold the gun there and then. Recoil and size meant little in a fight which should be ending after the first shot from at least 50 yards. Booker and several other men reached for the high performance rifles, bringing them up to their shoulders as they tested the weight and fit of the guns.

Most amateurs didn't realise that the proportions of a gun meant just as much to accuracy as your actual aim. If the butt end was too long you'd have to reach to pull the trigger, causing slight movements which could throw off aim, while it being too short for you would result in an uncomfortable mess as the shooter either held the gun away from the proper position or was forced to pull their hand backwards with each trigger pull.

Eventually Booker found a rifle that fit him, and so he began searching the nearby crates. He almost gasped when they revealed a treasure-trove of various optical scopes, clearly designed to fit onto the various weapons around the room. Some would say they were unnecessary given the close range nature of the city, but for a weapon like the Huntsman it would be a sin not to use one. After several minutes' deliberation, Booker eventually settled on a traditional if modified telescopic sight, which also revealed to be tuneable to different ranges, and featuring a mil-dot reticule. It reminded him of his old Springfield, but that gun had long since been replaced by more modern variants even back when he was a sergeant.

Putting the two pieces together, Booker was left with a high-powered, semi-automatic urban sniping tool superior to any other outside of Columbia itself. His long ranged needs covered, Booker set about finding a shorter ranged alternative. While it was true that he had two pistols already, one of which was as powerful as any shotgun, those would do him little good in a close encounter with more than a couple of men, and he had a feeling that the early days of Columbia would be filled with them. Booker moved to where the majority of the patrolmen had gone, hoping that his street-level comrades had found a solution to the dilemma.

What he found consisted of an entire aisle of racks supporting the weight of over a hundred alien weapons. They were like nothing Booker had ever seen. Made seemingly entirely of black coloured gun metal, they were much smaller than their more traditional cousins, but at the same time the barrels were made much thicker and had another sheet of metal attached with large holes punched through. The mechanisms were similar to those found on the Huntsman, but managed to look far more sophisticated. Like every other weapon in the building, a description had been printed onto placques held on each rack, which said "Rolston's Reciprocating Repeater's, designed for all-purpose engagements with multiple targets at close to medium range. High clip size, and the unique abilty to fire automatically, burying targets in a hail of fire. Offset by low accuracy, stopping power per shot, and common tendancy to overheat during prolonged periods of fire." Booker grabbed one as soon as he could.

He was beginning to see how incredibly far ahead Columbia was in terms of technology, even when compared to the USA from which it'd spawned. Automatic weapons existed across the world, it was true, but they were typically in the form of a Gatling or crank style form. To have such a small gun firing in automatic was both incredibly useful and also impossible according to most gunsmiths.

Never the less, Booker was done equipping himself. He began to pace back towards the man at the desk to acquire bullets and magazines for his new toy. On the way, he resolved to test out the guns at the range before turning in for the night. Tomorrow, the public entered, so it'd be a busy day, and if what Bradford had told him earlier was anything to go by, Booker would have no time to practise with them before he might have to use them. _Gonna be a long day…_

**A.N: Forgive my lapse into random gun talk. I needed to pad out this chapter a bit, and figured I might as well rant about something I at least partially understand!**

**I was writing how the briefing room would be in the northern wing of the Compound when I realised that since Columbia can move around it would be illogical to base direction on a North/South/East/West system or bearings, as the city could simply spin round, leaving what was North in South etc. And that's before including things like elevation of islands . As such, these terms won't be used to describe locations in the city, but may still be used to describe static locations (hence why the First Lady Airship still uses longitude and latitude for auto-piloting purposes to locations like New York).**

**I'm thinking about using a sort of Mass Effect style Codex at the end of each chapter to describe any specialist terms or units that appear in this fic, or just interesting points. Please tell me if you think I should drop it or continue it into other chapters.**

**INTEL REPORT**

**Columbian Security Force aka C.S.F**

**The Columbian Security Force, or C.S.F, is the official title of the overall security organisation of the city, commanded by Security Commander Cornelius Slate, a personal friend of the Prophet, and veteran of several major battles, the most recent being Wounded Knee. All members of the official security and/or military groups based within Columbia are a part of the C.S.F. At the time of reveal in September 1893, roughly 10000 men and women worked in either desk or field roles under the same banner. **

**A well-oiled and efficient machine, the C.S.F successfully maintains complete control of the city, ensuring that any and all laws are followed by every member of society. Most C.S.O's (Columbian security officers) are equipped with only basic weaponry and equipment, but the introduction of telecommunication and air mobility allows more heavily equipped counterparts to respond to a situation in minutes while the C.S.O's contain the problem.**

**BROADSIDER C93 Handgun**

**Developed alongside Columbia itself, the BROADSIDER C93 was developed by Fink Industries to provide a cheap, reliable automatic pistol for the average field C.S.O. While it's small 9mm Softpoint/FMJ rounds equate to a low stopping power it more than makes up for this with an incredibly high rate of fire and accuracy rivalling that of a rifle when used correctly. It is the most common sidearm used by C.S.O's and increasingly with civilians, mostly due to its uses in crowd control, low recoil and low-damage shots, allowing the officer to incapacitate most threats non lethally.**

**Despite the low stopping power, the C93 is easily capable of dispatching targets, and the Softpoint variant used by police teams fires rounds specifically designed to fracture on impact, resulting in huge tissue damage and no risk of killing the innocent behind the target. FMJ rounds on the other hand, are designed to pierce soft targets and punch through armour, making them popular in military units involved in heavier firefight. In such situations, the bullet can hit multiple targets or put down otherwise invulnerable combatants, though body damage is markedly reduced. It is currently the most advanced pistol in the US arsenal, and currently is only issued to select special forces groups and the C.S.F.**

**The Compound**

**The C.S.F is controlled from this facility, located just off of Emporia. The Compound is where everything worth doing in the C.S.F takes place, be it training new recruits, controlling operations within the city or processing prisoners. The facility is one of the three most secure locations in Columbia, the others being Monument Island and Comstock House, and is constantly manned by a standing garrison of 100 men alongside a small army of off-duty officrs, armed airships, AA Guns and 4ft thick reinforced concrete walls. The only way to enter the Compound is through employment to the C.S.F, being judged as a VIP by the Board of Security or being placed under arrest.**

**The Compound has been described as a city within a city, catering to every godly need of its occupants. Accommodation, food, entertainment, several licened traders and even a small casino can be found within (though gambling and drink are strictly monitored by Military Police and IA Officers posted throughout), alongside operational structures, and a fully stocked armory. A large dock is also contained within to ferry troops and ordinance to any location within the city, and full use of the new Sky-Line system has been taken to provide cheaper transport to outlying stations and important locations.**

**A.N: As always I would really appreciate any reviews for the story or just the chapter. PLEASE CRITICISE IT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE I CAN IMPROVE MYSELF WHICH IS A GOOD THING. That said, don't just flame please. Theres a big difference between helpful constructive ideas and just being a prick!**


	8. Filler - Opening Day

**A.N: Sorry for the long wait. Blame life. This chapter is 80% filler.**

**Okay so I got an anonymous review that was questioning my use of bolt-action Springfield Rifles as early as 1890 for Wounded Knee, as the most commonly referenced rifle of that manufacturer and style was built in 1903. Honestly, it's a good point and one I can answer in two ways really. You can either take it as a sign that weapons** **technology is further along in this alternate timeline than our own (Even the main verse has semi-auto rifles, personal machine guns and automated mobile turrets while the majority of the world's still using bolt-action and crewed guns for the same jobs), or if that's too cheap an answer just say it's one of the older models of rifle. Springfield was making rifles since 1777, and one was created as close as 1886 in terms of Wounded Knee (though not traditional bolt-action). I never specifically mentioned the exact model because I knew Springfield was making guns at the time, and didn't feel the need to go into the technicalities of a gun that actually exists. **

**P.S. guest thanks for bringing the point up so I could explain. Just going to point out that the sniper from the game is not actually a Springfield rifle, as the Bird's Eye is manufactured by Fink MFG from 1900, and is based on the Kar 98 (according to the wiki at least).**

**Believe me when I say that after a lot of brainstorms and daydreams I've got ideas for some pretty crazy tech. Think Rapture grade (seeing as Columbia already nicks a lot of that) AT LEAST, and more specifically, how Eleanor was able to talk to Delta in 2… wink wink grin ;)**

**Just a note that I will be re-writing the first couple of chapters before I release a new one. They're way too short and honestly not really up to the par in my own opinion. Thank you for your continued support by reading this far into the fic, and I hope you enjoy it. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.**

…**wow that's a long summary. Better get on with the chapter.**

**CH8-Opening Day**

**September 6****th**** – 0600**

"Mr Comstock, I'm afraid what you're asking may well be impossible." Roland Lutece allowed just a little annoyance to show in his voice. Being woken at six in the morning for a progress report had not been in his schedule for the day, and he was rather keen to show it, even to the man who paid him. "Indoctrination is nearly impossible to implement on anyone older than a few years. And even when it is possible, the subject usually requires a significant amount of mental disassembly; the kind where the mind of the subject is broken by prolonged periods of torture, sensory deprivation and solitary confinement." He spoke quickly, not really caring how much his investor heard, much less understood. The Prophet, as he had taken to calling himself spoke down the phone again. Roland's face briefly went slack, but then he regained his composure. "Really? Well in which case I may be able to give you what you ask for. Are you sure you want it though?"

The voice on the other end of the line seemed to become a lot angrier than before, something Roland had become accustomed to hearing whenever the 'Prophet' was queried by disbelieving citizens. Typically those subjected to it woke in a cell by weeks end, but Roland knew he was too valuable to the man for such drastic measures to be taken. That said, he certainly wasn't beyond punishment, and wisely decided switch opinions. "No sir, I'm not… Never mind, I just thought you'd want to keep her pain to a minimum…Yes all right, I'll begin at midday then." He put the contraption back in its casing. Looking once at the clock on the far side of the room, Roland decided it wasn't worth going back to sleep. Still sluggish, he loped down the stairs into the kitchen of his house, or more accurately small manor. Coffee would be just what he needed to keep him alert for the coming hours, and he couldn't afford any slip-ups. The girl was far too precious to the Prophet for that, even if he advocated torture to keep her docile.

**00000**

At 6 O'clock sharp, the entire population of the Compound was assaulted by a barrage of white-noise from the Loudspeakers. Almost everyone had heard Reveille at some point or another, and most learned to fear it after their first early wake'n'shake. Like the rest, Booker took a second to groan into his mattress before dragging himself from the covers. He, alongside Kevin Baker, Jason Ford and several other patrolmen, had been up late into the night testing and getting to grips with the new firearms. Jason, who'd been there a few more days than the rest, was acting as the instructor, providing a basic tutoring on the concepts of the more advanced tools of the trade. The men quickly discovered it was all well and good having Triple R automatics but the fire-rate was useless if you couldn't load the thing. Jason also pointed out the more modern guns habit of overheating after long periods of fire, and suggested that they use smaller bursts with longer gaps in between to prevent this. Even Booker agreed that it was more fun to empty an entire clip into a target, but Jason was adamant, and after a while most of them came around. The extra accuracy and reduction in maintenance time would be worth it in the end.

The downside to all of this was that Booker hadn't turned in until about 3am, so he was rather sluggish as he pulled on his dress-uniform and cleaned himself up. Everything absolutely must look perfect on the Grand Opening, no matter what his own views on the matter were. They were expecting tens of thousands of visitors and even new residents to pour in from the various docks throughout the city, either by Barge or the rocket pods that had carried Dewitt up the previous day. However they got there, it would be a long day for every civil servicemen stationed on the city, C.S.O's included.

Booker made his way down the hallways to the courtyard. The atmosphere was tense and everyone seemed to be in a big hurry. The courtyard was even more packed than it had been the previous day, but there were no announcements from the main stage. Instead, groups ranging from ten to thirty men gathered around commanding officers, receiving their orders and hastening to carry them out. It took a little while, but eventually he spotted the tall form of Kevin Baker, his assigned spotter. Making his way over to the man, he also caught glimpses of the rest of his group, including his CO, Major Bradford. Booker stood next to Kevin when he got there.

"Ahh Captain. Good to see you up." Bradford glanced in his direction, before turning back to the group. "All right boys, today's going to be a busy one. I don't want any reports of misconduct going out on the first day, or any for that matter. I want as little trouble out there as possible, so you're to treat every last one of our 'guests' like the bloody President 'till they pull a gun on someone. Am I making this clear enough?" The assembled group all murmured in agreement, most nodding and several giving the full 'Yes, Sir' to keep the man happy. It didn't take them long to work out that Bradford was more a bureaucrat than a true soldier or police officer, so they weren't surprised at all by his policy of public image before public safety. Booker suspected that he was part of the reason why everyone was being forced to where full dress uniform.

"You'll all be posted in three's with the exception of snipers, who'll be working in standard style pairs. I'll leave the decision making behind roles to you gents, but here are the groups." The man began to list off the various soldiers around him, and the location they'd be deployed to and with whom. When it came to Booker, as a designated sniper he was paired with Kevin and sent to Park Square, where it was predicted the majority of new-comers would be spending the day. Rules of Engagement were not to fire unless the target had already fired upon them or civilians; a dangerous risk but one everyone realised was necessary when so many people were in one place. The last thing Columbia needed was a gunfight on its official opening.

As Booker and Kev went to pick up their equipment, he thought about what he was doing. Booker had only come to Columbia because of what that strange woman, who'd so easily tracked and escaped him, had told him just to just before she disappeared. Later, he'd been given a picture of another, younger girl, and been told to find her. But that picture was gone, and with it his only real hope of finding her and the answers she apparently carried. The city was going to be packed with people, and he now had no means of even identifying the girl, even if by some miracle he found her.

Despite this though, Booker was in better spirits than he had been just a few days ago. He'd been seconds away from scattering his brains over the wall of his office, but now, even when everything seemed to have gone wrong, he felt no real need to repeat situation. Perhaps the thin air was messing with his head?

Slipping back into his room, Booker grabbed the equipment he required for the task at hand. It was going to be a fancy occasion, so dress-uniform was a must, even if he wasn't supposed to be seen by the general public. Besides that though, Booker also donned a leather holster and bandoleer, to be worn underneath the coat of the uniform. In the spirits of police work, he opted to take the new Broadsider over his more traditional Colt. While the bigger gun fitted the dress code, its usefulness in an environment where killing the mark was frowned upon would be questionable at best. Better to go with the safe option.

Also taken were the rifle, as was necessary for a sniper, the radio, and the bat. Booker still had no idea how to work the thing, but he was required to bring it along. Kevin had mentioned he knew how to work it on the way back though, so hopefully they'd be alright. As for the truncheon, Booker doubted it was necessary, but it looked good hanging from its slot in the holster, and might be handy if they got snuck up on. After a final check to ensure everything was in place, he made his way out towards the docks on the far side of the Compound.

Like everything else within the Compound, the dockyard was primarily built for function, but also had a sort of beauty in the construction. The nature of the wood-panelled piers sticking out over the empty sky was reminiscent of the landlocked variants down below, suspended in open blue. It was particularly noticeable today, seeing as there was no cloud cover. God must have been smiling on the new city, as Chicago had been plagued with overcast skies for the past two weeks.

The docks were large enough to support the entire fleet of airships and barges that the C.S.F used to move throughout the city, and along with mooring yards were also 'dry-docks', for maintenance, and a large impound section for confiscated ships and goods. There were also entire warehouses dedicated to containing anything the ships may need, from spare parts to artillery and heavy machine guns. This was an entirely new concept to Booker. Most countries around the world had only just advanced to bi-planes and the like. Armaments weren't required for a vehicle that wasn't designed to nor could fight well, but Columbian Airships and Barges were capable of advanced manoeuvres such as hovering in place, vertical take-off and landing, and even troop transport. As such, it made sense to outfit these ships, which were ideal for traversing the city, with weaponry.

Looking at the ships, Booker noted three different 'categories' of ship. There were transports, which mainly consisted of up-armoured barges, occasionally featuring a machine gun for the officers to support their comrades on the ground. Then there were the gunboats, which were similar to the transports in that they were primarily repurposed barges, but separate in that instead of lots of space to store cargo and officers, the gunboats usually featured multiple machine guns and very low explosive ordinance. Finally, there were the airships themselves, which Booker supposed acted like Capital Ships in the navy. Compared to their smaller brethren, airships were huge, and even more heavily armed than gunboats. Booker caught a glimpse of a trapdoor opening at the bottom of one nearby. A few moments after, a transport barge drifted up into the bowels of the larger ship, and then the door closed again.

It took a little while, but eventually Booker caught sight of some of the officers in his squad. As he approached, a man seemingly knocked into him by accident. Booker turned around to follow the man with his eyes, and quickly realised it was Jason. However he only had time to yell a quick hello, which, Jason turned and reciprocated, before he had to move on to his men.

It was almost ten more minutes until the last of the passengers arrived. As the last sheepish looking trooper slithered up to the main group, the first few began to pile onto the transport. Booker elected not to look down as he crossed the two foot gap between the safety of the pier and the floating vessel. The first thing he noticed as all but clambered onto the transport was the gentle rolling, akin to boats rocking in gentle seas. The effect was markedly more pronounced though. Booker suspected that before the day was done more than one C.S.O would be 'overcome' by the nausea. Luckily, several trips on the river back in New York had taught him that he didn't get sea-sick, which hopefully would translate to this situation quite well.

The barge should have been large enough to carry at least 20 troopers comfortably, but for reasons he didn't understand the railings had been built dangerously low and in some places were missing entirely-possibly to make loading men and cargo easier? This combined with the rocking left being anywhere near the edge an unappealing option, so the men all packed into the centre near the pilot's cabin. As the last man boarded the ship, one of the senior officers banged twice loudly on the window. At the signal, the ship burst into life, lifting sharply and turning out towards the open sky. Several officers stumbled at the sudden incline beneath them, but Booker, Kevin, and several of the more experienced troopers who'd flown before remained more-or-less still. Gradually, the transport levelled out again.

After having flown in two different aircraft now, Booker decided the Barges made for significantly smoother and more enjoyable rides that the rocket pods. Though powered by engines hidden below the floorboards, there was no mechanical groaning from a combustion engine or any vapour trails from a steam one. Booker may not have been sure how the vessel was powered, but it was powerful, smooth and almost silent. The pilot's cabin was completely hidden behind a glass window and bulletproof shutter, leaving him in question as to how the man could see their surroundings.

The view was amazing. It was a clear day, and he could see almost the whole city spread out below him, occasionally sporting little blue ants that were the officers on the 'ground'. Even further down, he could make out some of the skyscrapers of the Chicago skyline, looking as small as the C.S.O. It was ironic that Chicago's constructions tried so hard to reach the clouds, only to be beaten by the much smaller traditional buildings of Columbia.

There was a small speaker near the cabin, similar to a one way telephone. He realised that he'd zoned out during the flight, and heard a happy yet strangely mechanical voice play through the speaker. "Please keep hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. This Model: GU-11 Airship has been fitted with turbulence dampeners and auto-stabilisers for your safety and convenience. Please keep within the safety lines to prevent accidental death, dismemberment, decapitation and or disintegration during the flight." Kev nudged his shoulder; when Booker turned his partner twirled his finger round his own ear, managing to go cross-eyed at the same time. Booker let out a small chuckle. Despite how quite they were, he nearly had to yell to be heard over the engines. "Hey 'tleast least he can fly. I could care less if his head's screwed on bent." Kev nodded in agreement. He didn't talk much.

The barge began to sink lower towards the city, or more specifically part of the industrial plaza. A couple of officers from their unit hopped off as it passed over a rooftop, one drawing a rifle similar to Booker's, while the other walked towards the fencing that had been put up around the edge, lugging the huge steel box that was the radio. The barge took off again in seconds.

About thirty minutes and two detours later, Booker and Kevin followed suit, setting up on a tall building overlooking Park Square. The location was chosen for being high-profile and functional. Anyone who glanced up would see them, but only a trained gunman had a chance of hitting them. Such folk were not invited to the opening, so the two snipers were more-or-less untouchable. Just the way they liked it.

Another thirty minutes, and the first of their 'guests' began to wander into the park. Booker could see each of them through his scope, chatting merrily as they took in the wonderful sights of an impossible city in the clouds. None of them had a care in the world. He took special care to scan the faces of the women, hoping against hope that he'd spot the girl from the photo he'd lost. Hopefully if he did see her it'd awaken the memory and he'd actually recognise her.

At around 2:00pm, he was able to set down the gun for a few short minutes while he stretched his legs and grabbed a bite to eat. Kevin was busy talking into the radio, which had been set up in the middle of the roof. "Kevin, you mind taking over for a few minutes. I'm going to find a diner or something. You want something?" He asked.

"Nah I'm good sir. Just let me finish this broadcast and I'll get to it." Kev didn't look away from the equipment as he spoke. He had a soft yet cold voice, like he didn't trust anyone he spoke to. That said, he'd been friendly so far, so Booker decided to overlook it. He came back up to see Baker scanning the Square with the gun, focusing on something. "What is it Lieutenant?"

"Couple of guys in an alley. Far side. Both armed with revolvers, but I can't make out the model… Looks like they're about to mug some poor shrub." Kev kept his eyes on the targets.

"They draw yet?" Booker asked, frowning at the situation.

"Nah, but they're gonna. One's stumbling round. Probably drunk. Can guarantee non-lethal hits but sooner the better. Radio might help." Still looking down the scope, Kevin pointed at the machine.

" 'kay sounds good. But you're gonna have to use it. Or tell me how."

Sighing, Kevin rose from his position, and jogged to the radio. Booker took his place at the gun. It only took a second to spot the two men. They weren't exactly hiding. He heard Kevin begin the transmission "Any patrols at Park Square you read? This is Lieutenant Baker, 1st Company. We've spotted two armed suspects in an alley by Shady Lane. Requesting someone to pick them up." He paused as the man on the other end replied to the request. "Roger, we have a sniper on over watch and ready to support."

Through the scope Booker saw a team of four C.S.O's moving nonchalantly towards the alley where the two muggers were held up. As they approached, they moved to covering positions before two moved into the alley, hands on the holsters of their C93's. The muggers were surprised to say the least, not expecting officers to have been able to spot them. After the moment passed, they realised they were facing four better equipped and cautious soldiers, and acutely aware of how open their own cheap knock-off revolvers were.

One of the men clearly had had more to drink than the other though, because this obviously didn't faze him in the slightest. With the expert precision of a true drunk, he drew his gun and pointed it in the general direction of the officers, who were rushing to draw their own weapons. The crack of a gunshot split the air.

A gout of hot red blood sprayed across the alley. The drunk fell back, too intoxicated to comprehend the missing chunk of flesh from his leg. His friend just stared in horror as the C.S.O team breathed a sigh of relief and moved to arrest the two would be muggers. "He drew it." Was Bookers only reply to Kevin's questioning stare.

**00000**

Over the next few months, almost two million American citizens upped sticks and departed for the city. The pride of the USA was almost overloaded with awestruck civilians wandering around, never seeming to get over living in the clouds. For the C.S.F and Booker, the job became harder and harder, but never unbearable. Booker was pleasantly surprised to find that his old fire team, Lean Mannley and Vivian Monroe, had been transferred to the C.S.F shortly after tours of the US began, though they remained in separate units to him. Booker and Kevin continued to work as partners for the majority of this period, being transferred together to the 2nd MSG, the same group that their friend Jason Ford was affiliated with.

Through all of this, technology continued to advance at an alarming rate. New innovations from the well-established Lutece Laboratories were implemented by the newly formed Fink MFG, resulting in miracles of science becoming available for the common man. Automated gun turrets, advanced personal defence weaponry, new airship designs, new ways to utilize the skyrails, all became possible and furthermore happening right now. Rumours of 'super powers' were already beginning to float about.

On May 14th 1895, Columbia began to tour outside of the US. Crossing the Atlantic to grace the heart of the British Empire in London, the cultural capital of the world above Paris, and the growing industrial powerhouse that was Germany, it toured over all of Western Europe. As time passed, the Prophet rapidly claimed more and more popularity, predicting future events with near certainty, ranging from the weather, to the politics of countries below, and even occasionally to the results of horse races and such events. As his political clout increased, so did his cult following, until eventually over half the permanent residents were hanging by his every word.

And no words were more important than the legend of the Lamb, proclaiming the child in the great statue on Monument Island as the saviour of both Columbia and the 'Sodom Below' as Comstock had taken to calling all non-US territory on the ground. Dispute was uncommon. Most actively supported the legend and those who did not were unable to come close to matching the Prophet's political support. Several anti-Comstock groups began to form though, particularly those composed of black and Irish workers, who were discriminated against even more so than in the US.

And then, everything changed.

**Intel Report:**

**GU-11 Transport: During the later stages of Columbia's construction thousands of tonnes of material needed to be transported to the city, but at the time the only means of reaching the height the city resided at was by specialised docking elevators or hot-air balloon. Both had critical flaws; hot-air balloons were to slow whilst the elevators were incredibly unstable, resulting in the loss of thousands of dollars in material and personnel. The solution to this problem came in the form of the GU-11, a fast-moving vessel with the ability to perform VTOL and carry several tonnes of cargo. Following the end of construction, most GU-11's were transferred to the CSF, where they fulfilled the role of rapid troop transport across the city. Affectionately nicknamed 'Gull's' or just 'Barges' by both citizens and C.S.O's, they are the most common transportation for officers during the opening years.**

**Huntsman's Carbine (Early Models): Most conventional militaries use bolt-action rifles as standard issue weaponry; less developed countries still make use of manual-loading weapons. However, the unique environment of Columbia necessitates C.S.O's to have the versatility to effectively deal with multiple threats at all ranges quickly. The solution to this was the development of a new rifle, the Huntsman. Capable of firing accurate high-damage rounds as fast as the user can pull the trigger, Huntsman's are the go-to weapon for snipers and marksmen alike. While they may not fill an entire room with lead like a Triple-R, one man with a Huntsman can pick off entire squads of hostiles from the next island with little risk of accurate returned fire. They come in many variations, from the standard rifle model (V1), to the scoped, slower firing marksman model (V1.1), to the more compact, burst firing urban variant (V1.2 - Burst Gun for Founders).**

**Kevin Baker: Born in California, Lieutenant Baker was recruited by Commander Slate before the opening days, and assigned to 1****st**** Company as a spotter, being partnered with Captain Booker Dewitt for some time. Prior to this he had extensive experience in both police and military roles, but unfortunately suffered serious injuries during a brawl after a total of ten drunken men assaulted him and his two colleagues. Though physically he fully recovered, the death of one of his partners resulted in mild PTSD, leaving him reclusive at the best of times. This has slowly been changing, but to this day he still refuses to talk unless necessary or to his colleagues.**

-CLASSIFIED -

-ACCESS GRANTED: GOOD EVENING MR SLATE

_- Baker continues to show promise. Alongside his partner he has acquired twenty Commendations -and has been directly involved in twelve successful escort jobs, eight of which involved hostile -attacks on the charge. Indirectly, they've probably salvaged at least two more. I'm making the - call to Comstock tonight. If these two aren't Shepherd material I don't know who will be. Hell, -Booker's already got the title. So that's the full team then._

_- I still remember when I first saw the girl. Right after Wounded Knee. Monroe was riding back to - camp, little thing slumped against her back, barely keeping hold of the horse. Nice girl. Polite. - Helpful. Boys took a real shine to her. Could tell she didn't belong in a warzone, but she got put -there anyway, and came out all right. Lost her finger, her old lady, hell her own father was a - condescending ass with her, but she pulled right through. And…now she's that, thing... locked in a - bloody cell, even if it is fancier than most people's homes. I wonder how the people would react if - they saw her up close. Whatever Comstock did, it fucked her up. Acts like the worlds still perfect. - And the way she acts around that abomination of a pet…no it's not a pet. It's her jailor, but also - her… friend? Way she acts though; she loves it more than her actual daddy. And I'm sure that -something's off about her eyes. It's like she focuses so much on you that she literally looks through -you, like she sees a sack of meat and organs._

_-No matter, hopefully with these two getting transferred they'll get someone else to look after her. -My part of the job's done._

**A.N: Sorry for making yet another filler chapter. Can't help it really…I swear….PLEASE DON'T HURT ME!**

**Hopefully if you've actually bothered to read this you'll understand the coming chapters a little better. Hope you enjoyed.**

**P.S I will be updating the first two chapters to make them suit the rest of the story a little better before I add new chapters.**

**Also, I could do with a Beta, if anyone is willing to give future chapters a go. Or just someone to trial ideas with.**

**Thanks for reading as always. Please leave a review as usual and I look forward to hearing from you guys again both now and hopefully in the future. **

**Stay safe and have fun!**


	9. Filler- Stone Cold Pinkerton?

**Well HOLY SHI*. We've just reached the 2000 view milestone guys. Can't thank you guys enough for this. It's nice to know someone somewhere actually gives a damn about this fic. Brings proverbial tears to my eyes.**

**On a serious note, thank you for all the support, particularly to reviewers, but also equally to any who followed/favourite this fic. You guys have given me at least half the motivation I needed to keep this up, and I hope you continue to enjoy and/or criticise and/or hate my work with a passion.**

**So I'm at a bit of a dilemma guys. I have this nice plot set out in my head, but for it to work it requires a fairly significant time skip and will mean the story gets more linear rather than having branching… arcs if you will, or a string of one-shots. Personally, I think it'd be better to get to the point now, but I figured I'd leave it at least partly up to you guys.**

**In other words, do you guys want a slower paced fic with lots of side work to do with Bookers time as a C.S.O, or would you rather I get on with a main story for him, Liz, and Comstock, then add the side stuff to separate smaller fics at a later date (I WILL get round to them eventually regardless). Message me or leave a review with your answer.**

**Now on with the chapter. (Mostly filler till I get an answer for above so…)**

**CH9 – Stone Cold Pinkerton?**

**August 12****th**** 1895**

There were many words for the district Booker found himself in. Most called it Shantytown though, the sprawling platform dangling like a rotten apple beneath the 'tree' that was Fink MFG's factory. In the past year or so, Fink had bought out a number of competitors on the city, and was one of the biggest suppliers on Columbia. His factory produced nearly every legal commodity that could be bought on the city, and that included weapons and equipment for the C.S.F.

When the man supplying your organisation kindly _requests_ your aid in what is technically unlawful activity, you give it, even if you are the police. It didn't help the matter at all the Jeremiah Fink was one of the men who had helped fund the Prophet during the construction of the city, provided the workforce, and later became personal friends with the man. Fink effectively had the C.S.F at his fingers, and unless Comstock worked that out soon, there might be problems because of it.

'_Take these workers riots', _Booker thought to himself'_Workers are angry about pay-cuts and longer working hours. Prophet is petitioned, but ignores their complaints. Workers threaten to strike. Fink threatens to lay them off. Workers eventually do strike regardless, and Fink calls us lot in to beat the sh** out of them!'_

He hadn't joined to hurt poor families just trying to get by. Granted, he hadn't joined to be an officer either, but at least from that role he could help people. Even now, the dark looks from the locals convinced him to stay the hell away from any narrow alleys. Sometimes the universal right to bear arms really bites you in the ass.

His destination was the local bar, a shady joint called "The Graveyard Shift". As he approached, two pretty angry looking yobs edged out of an alley behind him. "Turns arounsh! Slooowwly!" The closer of the two yelled, lifting a small pistol to aim at Booker.

Raising his hands slowly into the air, Booker turned to face the two. Both were clearly drunk, if the slurred words weren't enough evidence. They staggered on flat feet, but still managed to aim their weapons at Booker well enough for him to be worried. Particularly so when he realised the one closest was carrying a Broadsider.

"Where'd you get the gun?" Booker called, pointing at it "You know only C.S.F has access to those."

"I stole it!" the man replied, looking very proud with himself. He seemed to get more and more excited as he spoke "Some pig got knocked out in the scuffles yesterdays. I nicked this and ran off. HOWSAATT! MOTHER-FUC –" he was cut of abruptly as the roar of a shotgun firing into the sky deafened everyone in ten meters. Booker took advantage of the distraction, drawing his handgun and pointing it at the more sober of the two. Behind him, the barkeeper kept his gun trained on the other.

"Nice of you to drop by Dewitt" the man said in a gravelly accent "Now, I don't know bout you, but these lads 'ave had too much of the gin t'day. I'd say give 'em a warning and confiscate the guns or summin sounds about right yeah." Booker nodded silently in reply, not daring to turn to face his rescuer. "A'right you two. Shows over. Give the officer the guns and scat." The further one obligingly tossed the gun to the floor, not fancying a fight with two better armed and sober fighters. The other one though, with the Broadsider, laughed for a second before pulling the trigger.

It was a move Booker had anticipated, so even while the man was settling his aim again, Booker was beginning to leap to the side. The bullet still tore a big chunk out of his bicep, but besides a dead arm and a lot of pain he was alright. The same could not be said for the foolish drunkard when the bartender's shotgun roared once more, this time blasting the man back and over the edge of the platform. Someone in India was going to have a really bad day when they found him. "Argh…shit that hurts! You get the bastard?" Booker asked as he slowly pulled himself up, trying to staunch the bleeding from his wound.

"Yeah he's dead." The tender replied quite coldly. This sort of thing happened a lot in Shantytown, and even if Booker had tried to arrest him for it everyone knew he'd be let off before he got to court. "Self-defence in my book…" said Booker "Bar has a Dollar-Bill right?" Since becoming an MFG, Fink industries had been working on developing self-servicing automatons. The first successful implementations of these were Dollar-Bill Vending machines. The machines sold a variety of useful items, ranging from food to medical supplies to bullets, and were fast replacing more traditional stores.

"Yeah, was installed about a week ago. Your 'friends' are already inside." Not many people knew, but the bartender had once been a member of a police force back on the ground. There was a pretty good reason for the incognito history; more than one resident would string him up for even sympathising with police down here. As it stood, he was probably the biggest friend C.S.F had on the whole island. His bar had been a safe-house for several cells of officers in the area.

The two meandered into the bar, guns holstered and arms held submissively in the air (Booker left his injured arm to hang dead from his shoulder), though they kept a strong pace even as they opened the door to the interior. With the gunshots outside, the patrons and _other _visitors would be particularly jumpy. Booker vaguely remembered the first time he'd entered. An entire poker table of players had risen from their seats to point a motley collection of weapons at him, not to mention the bouncer, who'd introduced himself with the barrel of a pistol scraping Bookers temple. And that was on a calm day.

This time, he was surprised to see the patrons _already_ pointing their guns at the door, obviously anticipating the worst. Shantytown made people do that a lot. Luckily for him though, after his first couple of visits they'd more or less accepted him as a new regular, and obviously shooting the barkeeper was out of the question. Guns were lowered with muted apologies from the relieved if slightly embarrassed men and women. Nobody made anything of his wound _'Just another day in Shantytown' _so Booker took the opportunity to purchase a basic medical kit from the machine in the corner.

Not many had understood Finks reasoning at the time for including things like bullets and medical supplies, or how he managed to fit them in the machines. It was a stroke of marketing and technological genius really. C.S.O's were getting hurt all the time, so the little bottles of "magic juice" as they'd come to be known were bought in bulk by the forces less cautious members. Doctors were all but out of a job now! And nobody ever had too many bullets…

Downing the surprisingly pleasant tasting mixture in one gulp, Booker almost immediately perked up as he felt the skin almost instantly begin to knit back together. The tell-tale itch of a healing wound was overshadowed by euphoria for a few seconds before disappearing entirely, leaving the officer as fit as he'd been when he woke up that morning, if a little light headed. Even the blood-loss was short-lived as the cells reproduced at a hugely accelerated rate, refilling his sub-par supply in less than a minute before returning to normal again. He'd heard rumours of some citizens getting addicted to the stuff, but the only addicting feature was the rush as some endorphins were released, and that only lasted for a minute, maybe two. Certainly alcohol was a cheaper and more rewarding vice.

Speaking of drink, Booker took a stool at the counter. The bartender who'd come in with him was absently cleaning a filthy mug with a rag, but turned to him quickly enough. He wasn't rushing anyway so he didn't mind.

"What'll it be? Whiskey or beer?" the tender asked. They were the only two drinks served in any amount here.

"Whiskey. Maybe some bread or something if you've got anything?" The man nodded, turning to grab a shot-glass before handing it to Booker alongside a bottle and some stale sliced bread. The officer nodded in thanks, paying with ten silver eagles to compensate the man for the food, drink and also the shells lost dealing with the drunkard outside. They didn't come cheap, and in Shantytown bullets were as valuable as any coin. The man surprised Booker though by only taking eight of the coins, handing the remaining couple back. It was an unexpected gesture; most civies in the district wouldn't have wasted the shots to save his hide at all, let alone refuse a full repayment for them.

"You've paid for your drinks and brought me a fair chunk of business with these colleagues of yours." The barmen said in explanation "Speaking of which, you'll find them downstairs in the back. I'd go soon before they start getting antsy if I were you." Booker nodded in reply, before knocking back another shot, shaking his head to try and clear the burn from his throat.

He waited idly there for another ten minutes, alternating between watching the poker, gnawing on the edges of the bread or downing shots. The game hadn't progressed that much, which was disappointing to watch but had beaten staring at the counter. Eventually he decided he'd let the others stew long enough, gulping down one more before returning the alcohol to the tender.

Rising from the stool, he confidently strode through the side-door leading downstairs, doing his best to look like he was supposed to be going there. He needn't have bothered though; everyone except the bartender was too immersed in the poker or the bottom of a bottle to care, and he knew what was going on anyway. On the other side, the sounds of quite chatter could be heard, alongside muffled laughter and groans as someone _('Jason probably') _made what was probably a terrible joke at someone else's expense. Then he heard the clatter a chair and its occupant falling backwards. Smiling inwardly, Booker leaned over the railing and called to the eight or so members of his cell below. "Sorry I'm late. Now someone get Jason off the floor." Several burst out laughing, or smiling 'Yes, Captain's before helping their comrade up.

Booker had by now made it down the stairs, and gripped his seconds arm in a tight lock. "Good to see you again Kev. Everyone ready?" he asked. The other sniper nodded, before angling his head to indicate the still laughing LT, Jason Ford "Yeah we're ready, e'cept maybe Joker here." He aimed a glare at Booker "You took your sweet time, and I can smell the drink even if you aren't drunk."

Booker chuckled merrily, knowing none of them really cared too much. After a few seconds he spoke "What can I say? Got shot on the way here and needed summin to take the edge of. Don't worry; drinks are on me when we're done here." The team collectively cheered at that, even the normally professional Kevin. "So Jace, how'd you end up on the floor then?" Booker asked.

The LT inspected his shoes for a second before finally replying sheepishly "Ehh, it's nothing really. Just Alex here." He stuck his middle finger in the air facing a slight but lean looking trooper behind him "Seems he doesn't like my material. I'll let you fill in the blanks." Alex smiled widely before theatrically cracking his knuckles, causing the Jason to start a half-step forward in fear. Everyone laughed except Ford. "Yeah you guys laugh now, but one of these days I swear he's gonna sock me one!" Their laughter only increased.

Eventually Booker recovered enough to hold a hand up, calming the others as well. "Okay, people. So you all know what we're doing. Get to the strike area and clear it up. Lethal force not authorised, thank God" Several troopers sighed in relief. No one here wanted to mow down innocent civies but if the C.S.F wanted it… well it was that or possibly a firing squad. "-but they've told us to get the job done by force if we can. You all know the drill. Unofficially I'm telling you now as always, pull your punches and try not to do any serious damage unless you have to. These are strikers, not revolutionaries, and anyone I see taking things to far can and will be working the Impound for the next few years alright?" Everyone nodded. "Okay then, if there's nothing else let's move."

They made their way out through the front one at a time, so as not to compromise the bar or its staff to the patrons. Forming up again a few streets away, they began the short walk to the elevator between the slums and the aptly named "Plaza of Zeal". Workers, angry over pay-cuts and worsening conditions, had pretty much locked down the whole elevator on both ends. Fink's private security would handle the upper strikers, but with no men present in Shantytown the tycoon had to request the C.S.O's to deal with the bottom level. Booker's team had been called in via GULL to supplement the consistently underperforming officers of Shantytown, who typically were assigned there or to the Impound for misconduct or plain incompetence.

In the hopes of preventing as much damage as possible, Booker had forbidden his team from carrying anything bigger than a Broadsider, and had already decided any toys the other men had would also be confiscated, even if he wasn't in direct command of them. Technically he should outrank anyone at the Impound regardless of who had operational command, and he wasn't going to let some trigger-happy rookie start a massacre because they got excited.

Said troopers were found just one street from the locked-down area, which in itself buried his team's hopes that they just might be working with competent men. "It's almost like they want the workers to be ready for them." Alex muttered under his breath. The rest of the men and women murmured their agreement. Booker kept silent till they met up with the other group at last.

"Captain Dewitt, 2nd MSG." he snapped off his identification at their CO. "You must be Lieutenant Commander Reed?" The man looked about 24, leading Booker to suspect he was such a high rank due to connections rather than merit. There comes a point when a tone is so naïve, arrogant and posh that it's almost painful to hear, and when the man replied after a few seconds Bookers eardrums felt like they were bleeding. "Oh, yes Captain. It is good to see you and your men made it here. I expect my current 'team' would be torn apart by those vicious dogs at the elevator hah ha!"

Outwardly he only turned cold, but inwardly Booker was almost fuming. As CO you should _never_ vocally express any lack of confidence in your team overall, even for an impossible task, and you definitely didn't blatantly insult them in such a condescending way. It pissed him of that men like Reed made LTC in a couple of years while infinitely better men like Alex or Ford were held back to make way. Hell, even he was guilty to an extent. He certainly wouldn't be a Captain if he hadn't known Slate back in the 'glory days'.

"Alright, I want your men to hand any firearms to my Staff Sergeant. He'll lock 'em up till you need them. As for how this works I'm in charge here. I don't know what family you're from and I don't care. You got any complaints? Well take 'em up to Slate. See who he'll support." The Lieutenant Commander looked shocked at Bookers bluntness, but eventually this gave way to spluttering rage for several seconds before turning to resignation. "Fine" he said almost sulkily "Give the man you're weapons." One by one Reed's men approached the sergeant, who stuffed their weapons into a large hold-all he'd brought along. 2nd MSG was appalled at the state most of the guns were in. Some were even crooked, or had rusted at the important moving parts. Eventually, all the guns were in and the sergeant pad-locked the specially reinforced bag, before stuffing it in a nearby cranny to hide it. He'd be staying behind to guard it anyway, but keeping hold of it would just paint a bright sign saying 'loot' on top of the man.

"Alright… so here's the plan.

00000

The attack began with a single shot being fired into the air as the men approached. As expected, the local constabulary's reckless waiting area had already given away their location and intention to the strikers, so there was no loss in warning the men. Hopefully some would just run off.

Booker was surprised by how fortified their opponent's position was. Temporary scaffolding and moved over clutter from the surrounding area had been used to provide cheap and easy elevation and cover for the workers. _'So they're expecting a fight, and have obviously been working for some time now'._

The police initiated the actual break-up however when they charged forward, batons in hand, and began to wreck the temporary wall which had been set up. The strikers, now enraged by the sudden assault, began to fight back, using bare fists, bricks and whatever they could find to beat at the armoured C.S.O's but even without 2nd MSG it was clear thatthe fight was in the polices favour.

Booker waded right into the middle of the engagement, sweeping his baton across the mass of bodies. As he'd told the men, he deliberately held back from putting his full strength into the blows, and around him he could see his own troops following that order. Reeds men were considerably less disciplined however, smashing teeth and limbs with abandon. Several times Booker had to swat at one of the more sadistic troops who thought it was a good chance to seriously hurt some people, and at one point he had to disarm one of them entirely, bending the man's arm until he dropped the baton before kicking it away.

'_Swing, smash, kick-out, parry, duck, swing, smash…" _He didn't like it, but a large part of him revelled in the violence he was inflicting even as the higher part of his brain watched in disgust. It brought him back to the old days in the 7th, when he'd been fighting for real. Back then it had brought a massive rush of adrenalin each time his life was in danger, and while it wasn't nearly as concentrated this fight had a similar effect.

Eventually though, it was all over. Thirty or so desperate workers were sprawled in heaps on the floor, groaning in agony or being cuffed by one of the officers. Job well done.

00000

Booker had kept his promise, buying everyone in his cell the first round back in the Graveyard Shift. But the atmosphere wasn't the jovial one he'd hoped for when he'd announced it earlier. Most of the team was drinking lots, and fast.

He could understand really. They'd hurt people. People who hadn't done anything wrong, who they were really supposed to be helping. But someone had effectively bought them off, and so they'd hurt them. It wasn't exactly a moral win for anyone involved.

Booker knew for a fact that he'd broken at least one poor sods arm when he caught the man with his baton as he got ready to swing at someone else. It was an accident, but it was still his fault, and god he felt guilty about it. That man wouldn't be able to work for at least a few weeks and in Shantytown you couldn't afford not to for more than a couple of days or you starved. And you're family starved with you.

Booker promised himself if he ever met Fink in person, he'd punch him square on the jaw as hard as he could. Show the bastard what it's like on the receiving end.

He looked at his team again. Most were staring into the bottom of a bottle, and even Jason was keeping silent in the wake of the clash. That was worrying.

"Allright guys. Time to head home." He said. Nodding, Kevin pulled out a radio from his pack. It hadn't changed much from the original design, but the Lutece's must have improved its workings because it weighed only a quarter of its previous amount. Still too much to be easily portable, but now it didn't need to be transferred via airship.

"Control this is 2nd MSG Cell 8-2. We're requesting a transport from Finkton Lower Levels back to Compound. Respond."

"Positive on that request. ETA ten minutes. Out." came the reply.

Jason finally spoke up "Good, I need to get out of this hole."

The cell (and several other patrons) all murmured their agreement. At the moment all they were looking forward to was a comfortable bed and some rest.

"Okay then, let's get to the Docks."

00000

Booker staggered into his accommodations and collapsed onto the bed, the drink having finally overtaken his tired body. The room had seen considerable personalisation since his arrival. There were several pieces of furniture arranged in a wild manor, alongside a desk which faced the door. He wasn't sure why he'd done that, but it had felt right. The wallpaper had also been redecorated with a layer of crème paint, which was all he'd been bothered to finish.

Following their return to the Compound, Booker had hit the Casino for a few hours, losing far more than he got but not an unacceptable amount. He'd followed this with several bottles of Whiskey and even a shot of absinth which he'd purchased from the Black Market, which was actually fairly prominent within the Compound. Internal -Affairs officers didn't really care what the regular ones got up to as long as no-one ended up unconscious on the streets. Booker remembered none of this though, as he instantly fell into a deep but fitful sleep, and dreamed of the girl from the picture.

**Intel Report**

**1895 Strikes**** – During early 1895, Jeremiah Fink proposed the lowering of wages for his workers alongside longer working hours, sparking anger amongst his workforce who believed that the pay was abysmal as it was. Their initial response was to actually demand an **_**increase**_** in pay, but this was instantly rejected by the tycoon. When other attempts at negotiation failed, the workers formed Unions and went on strikes. There were a large number of strikes, mostly taking place in the Autumn months, but beginning as early as June and not ending until late November.**

**The '95 Strikes are well known for the publicity they received from several different media companies, both on the ground and in Columbia. Many expressed distaste over Finks manipulation of the C.S.F to deal with several of the more problematic strikes, labelling it as bribery and the like.**

**2****nd**** Military Support Group**** – Set up just prior to the opening of Columbia at Chicago, the 2****nd**** MSG was planned on paper to be a "Jack-of-all-trades" organisation consisting of various specialists and all-rounders. The 2****nd**** was expected by many military tacticians to fall apart due to the huge variety of tasks it was expected to cover as well as the inherent conflicts caused by so many different specialists being forced to work with one another, and to an extent they were correct. However, after just over a month following the unveiling of the city Slate took direct control of the 2****nd****, and against the wishes of the Board of Security, reformed the command structure so that the overall group was split into multiple 'cells'; each numbering roughly 8-10 men and women.**

**These cells proved to be significantly more effective than previous structures, which forced the 2****nd**** to work in larger groups for fewer tasks. The officers in each cell will remain in the same cell for the majority of their career with the 2****nd**** barring the cell-leader removing them personally for misconduct and/or unwillingness to co-operate with their teammates.**

**The 2****nd**** is particularly well-known for its actions during the '95 strikes and the Boxer rebellion, in both of which several cells were heavily involved in.**

**Jason Ford**** – Jason 'Jace' Ford joined the C.S.F as a lieutenant, being transferred from his previous station in the US army to support the new city with most of his squad. He is known to have a considerable range of skills, ranging from mechanical and engineering to marksman roles, though primarily he is a combat medic. It is because of this skill-set that he was selected to join the new 2****nd**** MSG. Following this, he was selected to enter a cell under the command of Booker Dewitt. He served with this cell until his disappearance during the Boxer Rebellions.**

**He has been accused of insubordination by several officers over the years, and his tendency to not take the job seriously (though he does get it done well) has severely hampered his career. It is estimated he would be a Captain had these factors not been involved. As it is, he was stuck at Lieutenant for several years prior to his disappearance.**

**Jason[REDACTED]=======================================================================================================================================================================================================================================================[REDACTED] like several other members of his cell, disappeared following the Boxer Rebellion, and is believed to have either deserted, or been killed during his return up to Columbia. The latter seems likely, as Ford is known to have been fiercely loyal to the C.S.F and held his comrades both in and out of the cell in high regards. Also, reports of several Sky-Mines being active post-combat remain a possible explanation as to his fate.**

**00000**

_Voxophone Log: Zachary Hale Comstock – 1898_

_Male 1) "What I have done, many would call cruel. They would call me a monster, a liar, a con-artist. They would say that what I have done is unforgivable, question my authority as handed to me by the Lord. And eventually they would revolt. Through years of planning out into the open air to fall and crack on the Sodom below. And so they will not know."_

_Sighs_

_Male 1) "My Lamb…is perfection. She is the one who will raise the people up from the Sodom below. She will ignite the fires of Columbia and direct them at our enemies, and the people will rejoice. For what is free-will good for if the Spirit is found wanting. For all things there is sacrifice, and for this… that sacrifice has been greater than most. My daughter…has died…for this. When I look at her, I see not the child I once raised with love and affection, but the instrument of divine judgment incarnate; Elizabeth in flesh and blood only. It seems the lord… values our salvation highly indeed. I can only hope I was right to accept his offer."_

_Ringing_

_Male 1) "Yes who is it? Fink?"_

_Door opening_

_Male 1) "Ahh, Roland. Rachel. I trust you bring me good news?_

_Roland) "Yes Mister Comstock. We've just finished the operations on the first three specimens-"_

_Rachel) "-and they're accepting their new abilities almost perfectly"_

_Roland) "Unfortunately, it seems Fink will be required again-"_

_Rachel) "-as the subject requires a regular supply of this mineral to prevent the bodies rejection of the substance."_

_Roland) "We believe their use of the powers increases the rate of rejection, thus requiring more of the mineral for the abilities to function."_

_Mr Comstock) "I'm sure Fink will work something out. In the meantime send the specimens to the Compound. I want to see how well they deal with armed soldiers before they're moved to Monument Island. Bring in the Bird as well."_

_Roland) "Sir? Are you certain you want that? The specimens alone will likely kill anyone who crosses them. To bring in that Bird as well-"_

_Mr Comstock) "-People will die, I'm aware Lutece. Get it done, and then get them to Monument Island. Maybe then I'll forget about you questioning my authority again!"_

_Roland L.) "Yes, sir…"_

_Mr Comstock) "Good, now get out."_

_Shuffling, Door closes_

_Mr Comstock) "Oh, this box was recording the whole time…"_

_End of recording_

**A.N: Okay, so sorry again if you don't really like filler chapters, but until I get an answer to this I can't really decide whether to advance the story more, do filler or something completely different (maybe another Liz perspective?).**

**Been working on this for a while but got a lot of it done on one night, so please feel free to tell me if it doesn't make sense and or has lots of typos.**

**As always, thanks for reading and I hope you look forward to the next chapter. Rates and/or reviews are always very much appreciated.**


	10. Main - Anomaly 1

**A.N: Hey guys soo sorry for the late update. Guess I just kinda hit a wall in my head, but it's all sorted now hopefully. Hope you enjoy!**

**P.S Still looking for a Beta if anyone's interested**

**CH10 – Anomaly 1**

_**Roughly one week after the Worker's Strike**_

_The pressure on his head began to grow as the monster gripped him in its enormous paws. Enveloping Bookers entire skull with a single palm, it lifted the terrified officer a full 4 feet off of the ground, shaking his body like a fish. Sparks flew from where another volley of shots pinged off of the creatures' metal hide, but there was no sign that it even felt the powerful impacts. If anything, they only seemed to make it more determined to kill the officer suspended in front of it, and the pain in Bookers skull multiplied ten-fold as the thing squeezed. Fighting for every small motion he made, Booker scrambled to draw his Paddywhacker, unloading the whole cylinder into the things armoured gauntlets. It moaned in pain, the round successfully denting and even piercing the armour in places. It still wasn't enough for it to lose its grasp of the man. _

_It was too much pain, and in his agony Booker screamed out. The behemoth showed no sign of letting go, and Booker began to lose the fight for consciousness as his body shut down. Subconsciously he still fought back, but in his mind he could only imagine how much relief death would bring. Sure, he'd never find the girl but was any mystery worth the torment he'd endured here? It was better to give up and hope the Lord was in a forgiving mood. Well… whatever judged a man when he died._

_Suddenly the pain was gone; replaced with a sense of free-fall as he was launched high into the air. His vision returned just in time for a view of his colleagues still engaged with the red-eyed beast before they were whisked out of sight. He skidded to a stop in another room, having been tossed out of the first and down a grand looking flight of stairs before the tiled floor broke his fall. There was an audible snap as more than one bone in his left hand was pulverised by the impact. He screamed again in pain, tears streaming from his eyes._

_That was all the warning the other denizens of this hell needed. Howling with joy, they charged the crippled man. First up was a woman, dropping from the ceiling, bloody hooks already falling as she leapt._

_**8 hours earlier**_

It was August 17th 1895. Columbia was currently suspended somewhere in the aether over Nepal, and was in the middle of a blizzard. The mountainous landscape below had forced the floating city far higher than was normal or comfortable for its denizens to endure. Most everyone was staying indoors next to a warm fire, sipping from a cup of coffee. Work throughout the city, even at Finkton, had been cancelled with half-pay due to the difficulty in crossing the various islands in such conditions.

Unfortunately, C.S.O's didn't get the luxury of a day off. Someone had to make sure that abandoned shops stayed empty, or that basic machinery like the reactors continued to function in the cold and the thin air. Still, the snow had brought some good news for Booker and his subordinates; with all the workers on an official leave until the storm broke, C.S.F wasn't asking its officers to break up strikes for Fink. They were still going on, but for a few days at least the tycoon didn't care what the workers did.

2nd MSG had been given the job of escorting less cooperative citizens back to their homes or alternatively to the nearest checkpoint, where a GULL would hopefully be ready to finish the job. The cell had been split up into pairs for the job; it was hoped that they'd cover more ground that way.

Booker and Alex had just picked up a couple of kids who'd been playing in the snow, and were in the middle of getting them back to their home a few blocks away. Booker had no idea how they'd managed to cross the islands - all but the main junctions were closed or had police checkpoints – but it was lucky they'd found them when they had. Any further and they'd probably would've gotten lost in the blizzard, or worse fallen over the edge.

There was a checkpoint down the street, which the pair made their way towards. Booker stumbled over a buried curb and almost fell, much to the amusement of his partner and their two charges. Booker just gave his colleague a dirty look. "Knock it off Sergeant." he growled, but there wasn't any force behind it, and Alex just laughed harder.

Eventually they made it to the checkpoint, manned by a couple of frozen and appropriately upset looking troopers. Nodding to the pair, Booker made his way over to the radio set up in the corner. He navigated the series of button presses and dials much quicker than he used to; practice was paying off at last.

"Compound, Captain Dewitt here. I've got a couple of kids here out in the open. Requesting a GULL for transport. Over." The radio was quiet for a few moments before the man on the other end spoke up.

"Roger Dewitt. That's a positive on your transport. Sit tight for a few minutes - grab a coffee or something – and we'll get to you when we can. Should be in about ten minutes. Out."

Booker stood up from the device. He relayed the message to Alex, and then spoke to the two officers who'd been left to garrison the checkpoint. "We've checked the whole area guys. No point in you freezing to death in the snow so you might as well come with." He said. The pair smiled gratefully and nodded in response. A few minutes later, the gentle roar of engines signalled the transports arrival.

Booker ushered the children on-deck whilst the others loaded up some of the gear from the checkpoint; namely the seats and the radio. When everyone was aboard, the craft rose into the blizzard. It didn't take long before the Columbian streets were lost under the unforgiving blanket of powder and hail. The GULL rocked wildly in the turbulence, it's powerful stabilisers providing little comfort to the passengers of the completely exposed deck. One of the kids screamed as he was nearly pulled off by a gust, but fortunately fell into the firmly grounded body of one of the officers.

Eventually, after about a minute of frantic travel, the streets came back into view as the transport descended. Revealed with this was the sight of a small confrontation between a couple and another group of C.S.O's. As they approached, Booker began to make out small parts of their argument: _"Out there…curfew…stupid idea…what about the kids" _Booker smiled to himself. _That's one family crisis averted, though I wouldn't want to be these guys when their mother gets her hands on 'em! _The GULL pulled up right next to the argument, and the children almost instantly jumped the small gap to the island and their waiting parents. The mother looked at their children in shock for a few seconds before breaking down into tears, clutching the smaller of the two as if the world was ending. As for the father, he maintained his dignity far better, getting down on one knee to hug the two before turning to Booker and the other officers and thanking them. They waved off his attempts at apologising for the argument, all of them understanding how devastating it could feel to lose a loved one, even for so short a time.

With the family successfully reunited and more importantly indoors now, the officers all got back onto the GULL. The assignments were changing soon, and they all needed to be back at the Compound to receive their new orders now that the radio had been packed away.

The ship took off from the island, its pilot skilfully navigating the treacherous mazes of buildings and hazards despite the deteriorating conditions_._ "So what'd you two do to get stuck with guard duty?" Booker asked the men they'd picked up at the checkpoint.

The men in question grimaced at the memory before the shorter one answered sheepishly "Back-talk, sir. Well, that and one too many drinks in front of an IA."

Booker chuckled before replying "And the moral of the story is…Internal Affairs is full of pricks. Stay away guys, am I right?" The men responded with a clearly over-the-top "Hooah!", before everyone had another quiet chuckle.

Suddenly the open skies were replaced by darkened blue walls and a ceiling. There was an enormous crunching sound as the GULL crashed nose-first into solid tiled flooring, buckling the front half of the airship and sending the soldiers on the deck hurtling through the air at high speed. The last thing Booker was aware of before unconsciousness claimed him was the cockpit of the ship exploding into flame, and his comrade's bodies smashing into the walls, floors and even the ceiling. That and a sharp pain in his stomach, centring in his left side like a pin-prick, but quickly spreading throughout his body.

00000

"_This little fish looks like he just had his cherry popped!"_

_Booker's vision was warped beyond comprehension, but he could just make out what appeared to be a man kneeling in front of him. Something was wrong though. When the man leant over, the dimensions of his face were all wrong, like a cat's face on a human body._

"_Wonder if he's still got some ADAM on him?"_

_Booker blacked out again. When he came to, there was another figure in front of him as well as the first. A loud moan, unlike anything he'd ever heard, reverberated through the room he was in. The two figures visibly cringed at the sound. The new one seemed particularly frightened by the sound._

"_You hear that? Let's bug!" he screamed, before rushing off and out of Bookers sight. The other stood up, clearly angered by the actions of his buddy._

"_Weak! You're a weak chopper!" he screamed after his 'friend'._

"_This little fish ain't worth toeing' it with no Big Daddy!" came the voice of the fleeing figure, seemingly from some distance away._

"_Yellow! Always have been!" the first figure called out. Then he turned his attention back to Booker "You'll be no better off with the metal daddy, little fish. See you floating in the briney..." Then he bounded off to join his comrade._

_00000_

_Booker awoke again. He was still all but paralysed on the floor, and now was aware enough to be worrying about serious damage to his system from the crash. Such fears were banished instantly though when a giant armoured boot crashed into the ground inches from his head. He was nearly blinded as his face was bathed in a yellow spotlight, which he just managed to trace to a bunch of 'portholes' in the new figures head. With his vision slowly improving, he could now make out more details about the things in front of him. The creature in front of him was huge, easily taller than any man he knew, and yet still managed to appear hulking or hunch-backed._

_Booker also noticed that the creature wore a strange suit. It was made of sheets of metal strapped onto what appeared to be almost leather, giving the creature a menacing and rather invulnerable appearance. For the moment at least however, it remained either indifferent or oblivious to Bookers presence. It merely stood there, making the strange moans he had heard earlier which had scared the other two off. 'So this is a Big Daddy' the part of his brain which had recovered told him._

_Then something he did not expect at all happened. A little girl, no older than nine years, stepped in front of the behemoth. Tattered skirt and blouse, and covered in dirt; the girl was certainly not in the best of shapes. What terrified the officer though were her eyes. They glowed bright green._

"_Look Mr Bubbles. It's an Angel! I can see the light coming from his belly." The girl leaned closer to him, and then Booker realised she was hefting an enormous needle. He had no doubts that if she wanted too, she could very easily kill him. _

_For some reason, she stopped and backed away, looking confused. "Wait a minute. He's still breathing…" she sounded very disappointed, but then perked up "It's all right. I know he'll be an angel soon…" and just like that, she skipped off, seemingly oblivious to the unconscious officers she hopped past. The giant lumbered after her, shoving the bodies out of its way as it chased after the small child._

_00000_

The next time Booker awoke, he was being shaken by Alex. The soldier looked at Bookers face worriedly for a second, but then smiled and pulled the man to his feet. Despite being completely immobile just minutes before, Booker somehow stayed on his feet. When he got up though, the worried look came back to Alex's face. "Shit Booker, you feeling alright?" he asked, pointing to the _empty_ bottle impaled into his abdomen by a two inch needle. The sight of it reminded Booker's body of his condition, and he collapsed without warning, almost taking Alex with him.

"All right sir. Come on. This is gonna hurt, all right?" he said, gripping the main body of the intrusive syringe. Booker just nodded, and then grunted in pain as it slid out through his tenderised flesh, a few drops of blood and whatever had been inside dribbling from the puncture. "Right sir," Alex said, "I don't know what was in that needle, but if you feel off in any way, let me know and I'll do the heavy stuff all right?" He received another nod of acknowledgment in response.

Booker managed to drag himself to his feet. Looking around, he saw the Gull, or what was left of it. The entire front had buckled in the crash, and the fuel tank must have lit because the rest was a charred mess of twisted metal. Booker winced when he spotted the blackened corpse of the pilot, welded onto the windowsill where he died trying to escape the inferno. It was lucky the wherever they'd ended up had a stone floor, else they might have suffered the same fate. Speaking of which…

"Ahh shit…What happened? Where the hell are we? And where are the others?"

Alex had a look around, "Wait a minute…I saw it earlier…there!" He yelled, pointing at a golden sign above what looked like a doorway. "Welcome to…Rapture!"

"Rapture…" Booker said, testing the name "Sounds like something Comstock would've named a ARGH!" He clutched his head as searing pain drove into his brain. Static temporarily clouded his vision, and he swore for a second he could remember escorting Eleanor back to her vent. '_Such a good girl…'_ Then the memory was gone, and Booker was left dazed and looking at Alex's concerned expression.

"Shit Booker! Your nose!" Booker lifted a finger to his nose. It came back red with his blood. "What the hell was in that syringe Sir?!" Booker wanted to know just as much as he did. Looking up, he saw Alex staring out the window.

"Alex what're you - the hell!" His gaze moved past Alex to the view outside. It was water. Filling over the window and higher up than one could look through the window. And through it he could see lights and even a strange glass corridor, not too far past this corridor was a skyscraper, except as far as Booker could see the top never got close to reaching the surface of the water. It was at this moment he realised they were under the ocean, or at least a body of water deep enough to cover a city. "This is really messed up." Alex just mumbled something resembling a prayer and nodded. "Alex! Do you get this? We're under an ocean! We just went from the bloody sky to the bottom of the bloody ocean in seconds, and crashed into a bloody underwater city!"

"I know that. Important question is, how do we get back?"

Booker didn't have an answer yet. "Come on! Let's get the others and find a way out!" Booker began to search through the rubble for his colleagues. It didn't take too long to find them. Of the twelve men who'd been on the GULL, nine had survived the crash: Booker, Alex, the two from the checkpoint, and five of the men from the other group. They also found the remains of the radio; it was smashed and ripped apart by the impact. About an hour later, the last of them had woken and was up to speed with the situation (or as informed as they could be. None of them had a clue what had happened still).

"Sir, what'll we do with the bodies?" one of the younger men, David, asked. He pointed at the corpses of the three unlucky soldiers and the pilot.

"Guess we'll have to leave 'em till we get back," replied Booker, "because no way in hell are we carrying them through…whatever the hell this place is. We need to find a way to signal the C.S.F, and then get the hell out."

"Sir! We could carry them out."

"Yeah we could Private, but this place seems like it's just waiting to drop an ambush on us. I want everyone combat-ready and we don't have the men to cover our asses _and_ get the dead back." The younger man went silent, looking at one of the corpses, likely a friend, before nodding. "Good, now let's get moving!"

The survivors decided to head in the direction the GULL had crashed from, but were at a loss as to how the relatively large airship had managed to get into the hall. The only entrances were small corridors; far too small for the craft to fit through. Not to mention there was no damage to the area behind the tail of the ship. "You'd 'ave thought that thing would've smashed a hole in the wall." Said one of the officers; a man named Brent.

"Yeah" agreed Alex "it's like it was just dropped into the room. No trail of wreckage or anything…" . The others remained silent, sweeping the corridor ahead with weapons at the ready. A few had lost their main weapons in the crash and were resorting to side-arms, but there was still an impressive arsenal of six Triple R's and Broadsider's scanning the ground ahead.

Booker realised that the direction they were going was also the same as that of the madmen and hulking monster with the mad child. The C.S.O's were making pretty quick progress through the halls, and if that thing was as slow as he thought it was they'd catch up to the monster very soon.

Booker's thoughts were interrupted when a high whistling sound filled the room they'd just entered. At the front of the group one of the officers from the checkpoint, a man named George, collapsed to the ground with a wet gurgle, blood spraying across the men behind him. Even from his position in the centre Booker could see the glistening meat hook lodged in the man's throat. A maniacal cackle from the roof signalled the rest of the ambush, with men and women dressed in ragged ballroom outfits dropping from the ceiling, bursting through doors, and leaping from behind fallen pillars. All of them carried a selection of weaponry, ranging from knives to hammers to bricks and guns.

The officers saw the danger and held their ground, unleashing a withering barrage of fire at the oncoming horde. The number of rounds made the 7th's old Hotchkiss guns look like bolt-action's, but still wasn't enough to kill all of the attackers before the remaining few leapt over their dead to engage the C.S.O's in close quarters. Forced into a melee, the officers faired far worse, most suffering serious cuts and broken ribs as they fended off the crazed mob. Finally after a minute but feeling considerably longer the last of the attackers scarpered or lay on the ground dead. Booker used the respite to search for his own casualties.

Including George, two men had fallen in the attack. The other's name wasn't known by Booker, but the man had taken a lot of punishment before he died; several lacerations on his face, torso and limbs were bleeding over the floor but it was a brick to the temple which had killed him. Besides that, everyone including himself had suffered some injuries from the brawl, but it wasn't anything their predictably dwindling supply of magic juice couldn't fix.

He also examined the dead attackers, though he quickly wished he hadn't. Every one of them was covered with glistening, angry looking tumours and boils. Most had rotted teeth or sharpened canines, and bloodshot or even _bleeding_ eyes were the norm. These features and the ruined apparel left the attackers looking more feral animal than human. "What the fuck did this to them?" Booker asked knowing no-one had an answer for him.

They were just preparing to move on when that moan filled the air again. If he'd ever heard one, Booker would've compared it to a beached whale, but as it the closest sound he could think of was a ships foghorn. The beast lumbered into view with the child in tow, approaching the corpses of the dead attackers. Now that he had fully regained his sight, Booker could make out more details. The "Big Daddy" as the men earlier had called it, was huge but a roughly humanoid shape, appearing to be a man in heavy and hugely stylised armour. It looked kind of like the diving suits Booker had occasionally seen worn by the river in Manhattan, but was a lot more advanced with glowing portholes and such. It made sense, he guessed. An underwater city would almost require suits like this. More worryingly was the huge drill attached to the monsters arm, and the bloodstains left on the spinning tip.

Booker wasn't sure who fired. It may have been the Brent, but ultimately it mattered little. The beast flinched slightly as a burst of machine gun fire tore at its armoured hide. When the fire stopped, it turned to look up at the soldiers. It's portholes had changed colour from passive yellow to blood-red. There was a roar as it charged, revving its massive drill even before it was moving. A man was speared by the instrument, and lifted several feet into the air with the still spinning tool lodged deep into his chest. Gore sprayed across the room as the man's ribs, heart and lungs were shatter, ruptured and eventually liquefied under the brutal weapon. His cadaver was tossed to the side as the monster swung its weapon around.

Its next move was grabbing Booker's skull and squeezing.

00000

_A burst of machine gun fire ripped through the hook wielding mad-woman's face, and her corpse fell with a splatting noise next to Bookers injured form. At first he though his allies had dealt with the monstrosity upstairs and come to his aid, but then a strange looking machine 'flew' in front of him. The other madmen darted away as more of the machines came into view, firing precise and deadly bursts into the retreating bodies. More than one of them fell to the floor under the onslaught._

_The machine was very strange indeed. It was roughly cuboid shaped, and about one and a half feet tall top to bottom, and half as much side to side. It was made of four obvious parts that he could see; a rotary system much like a minute version of Columbia's propellers, a main "body" below that, what looked like an eye on one side and finally a small machine gun. It flew with some difficulty apparently, constantly swinging from side to side as it tried to balance recoil, manoeuvrability and speed all at once._

_Booker was still in shock about his unlikely rescue when another machine, similar to its gun wielding kin but instead with a mounted black box. Despite the events of the day, Booker was still stunned when the black screen burst to life, revealing a moving black and white image of a middle aged man. Following this, the clearest voice he'd ever heard from a radio spoke out._

"_Allow me to make your acquaintance. My name is Andrew Ryan, and this…" his voice took on a menacing tone "is MY city."_

**Intel Report**

**Tears ****– There have been numerous reports of strange anomalies appearing in the general vicinity of Columbia and the surrounding air-space. These 'tears' appear as small rips in the air, outlined by what appears to be a white energy, similar to light, but much more concentrated. Tears can pose major security risks as well as hazards to both people and structures alike. Best our operatives can tell, they are 'doorways' to alternate universes.**

**While typically too small to fit a person through, tears are known to dramatically grow at the approach of some individuals. However not all individuals have this effect, and even the ones that do often only affect certain tears. It is unknown why certain beings affect certain tears but not others, but currently the leading theory (compliments of Lutece) is that tears react more to people who are in the same relative space to their 'opposites' on the other side. **

**People reported to have entered a tear, either intentionally or by accident (see dossier for **_**1896 Rebirth Incident**_**) experience massive cognitive impairment often followed by amnesia and/or are rendered catatonic by the experience. This coupled with the dangers that may lurk beyond the tear itself, has led to protocol for tears enforcing a 500m quarantine zone being set up around the centre, with no less than two fully equipped airships hovering over it. After a time, the tear will eventually cease to exist.**

**TOP-SECRET: Our Prophet, Fink, the Luteces and upper body of C.S.F and the US MoD have known of the existence of tears for almost a decade. At time of writing (January 21****st**** 1899) tears are known to the general public of Columbia as "Miracles of God" but the reality is that they are manifestations of REDACTED-REDACTED unique abilities. Even with the installation in Monument Island of the REDACTED it appears there is no way to control her powers completely.**

**Electro-Bolt/Salts:**__**Electro-Bolt was a product transported through a tear during the first few cases, before protocol barred all but the highest official's access to tear's discovered. From Electro-Bolt, Lutece Laboratories and Fink MFG were able to reverse engineer a creation known as Plasmids, and also develop and produce their own in multiple variations. Though currently there are numerous examples of Electro-Bolt copycats in society, the most popular is currently the much hyped Shock Jockey, which receives great praise for its ability to produce and **_**maintain**_** a long-term energy source capable of powering any and all electrical products.**

**Like all Plasmids, Electro-Bolt requires a high concentration of the chemical know as EVE to function properly. Attempts to use the plasmid without sufficient reserves of EVE will result in total failure and/or damage to the user. In light of this, Lutece reverse engineered the substance to create what is commonly referred to as Salts. Salts are similar to EVE in almost every way, and provide the same effects for Plasmids as they do Vigors. However, Salts also have several other benefits outside of Plasmid/Vigor use, and are ingested, resulting in a more convenient and considerably less painful alternative to the original syringe injections.**

**Dossier - 1896 Rebirth incident**

During a routine security search for Vox Populi contraband, the CSV Rebirth and the ship it was docked with disappeared entirely from Columbian airspace, in full view of almost 40,000 people around Memorial Island. Witnesses reported a strange energy engulfing the vessels, before the just vanished without a trace.

Columbian Security Vessel's Rapture and Samaritan both searched the surrounding area for evidence of the vessels location when another vessel appeared from seemingly nowhere. The vessel engaged the two airships, destroying Samaritan and killing all hands whilst Rapture suffered crippling damage and was abandoned by its crew after the engines failed. The hostile vessel proved to be a treasure trove of technology unknown to any civilisation on the earth, advancing several of the sciences years ahead of what would have been possible.

It was later uncovered that the CSV Rebirth had stumbled through a huge tear, and following this discovery, all the airship and its crew were listed as KIA. There is no confirmation on the vessels ultimate fate, but considering the emergence of a hostile and advanced warship from the other side, it was likely destroyed. The tear itself closed naturally after a period of 32 hours.

NOTE: This is the largest known tear to have ever manifested, but it is unknown of tears can become larger. The reason for this is that due to the dangers of tears, the REDACTED was installed at REDACTED just two weeks after the incident, so as to prevent further situations developing. It was only partially successful.

**A.N: Ooo Big Daddies, Tears, Mr Ryan and Spider Splicers all in one chapter. Talk about spreading yourself thin. Guys and gals if you think this chapter was a bit meh please let me know. I'm fairly confident it's okay but it was mostly action/dialogue (neither of which are my strong suits) so there's a good chance I effed it up.**

**Hope you can all deal with the lore breaking. I always figured if tears exist randomly throughout Columbia then how has no one supposedly ever entered one but still managed to nick technologies like plasmids, automatic weapons and robotics from them.**

**And before any of you complain at how they should all be "tear-affected" aka stumbling around phasing through reality, you're partially correct, but I can justify it. In-game, you see people are only affected by tears under certain conditions, namely a living human still experiencing the concept of death (i.e. the guards in the Good Time club), and also a human spotting certain stimuli (i.e. Booker seeing the poster which said he was a martyr/Comstock mentioning Anna at the start)**

**You'll find that Booker quite happily travels through **_**multiple **_**tears throughout the game and usually only feels negligible effects much later on rather than immediately collapsing. One could argue that this is because he's already gone through a tear prior to the game, but I respond by saying that it seems very unlikely that because the Booker jumps universes to one where he is very much alive (aka the first jump with the Lutece's taking him), that he will adapt to jumping to any universe whatsoever, particularly one where he is already dead (aka Booker/Liz's jumps in Good Time Club/Shantytown). By that logic, because Booker **_**doesn't **_**feel the effects – at least not to the extent of tear-affected npc's – we must assume that tears aren't quite as dangerous to the mind as the Lutece's make out.**

**If you followed that, you should really be a quantum physicist… or an English teacher.**

**As always, thanks for reading and please leave a review**


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